Strangers Among Us: Lost Souls
by JKatrin
Summary: A century and a half after the Mage Storms,there are strangers to Velgarth once more.
1. Chapter 1

Strangers Among Us: Lost Souls

_A/N: This is a work of fantasy that piggybacks Mercedes lacky's Valdemar series. I do not own the setting. Also mentioned is Glen Cook's Black Company setting. I also own none of the characters from that setting, except for Squeaky. Dave owns Knuckles and No. Brandon more or less_ is _Maul, as Joe is Topper. And Daniel Montes breathed life into One. Thanks boys, for letting me borrow that crazy bunch for this little adventure._

Part 1: Glittering Stone

_There is a place, called the Plain of Glittering Stone. It exists in and on sixteen different worlds at once, and touches the Plane of Shadow as well as the spirit world. Strange dangerous shadows roam its pale surface, barred from the roads that traverse the Plain by pillars of dark basalt that glitter as if splashed with golden coins. There are sixteen of these roads, perfectly preserved and jet black, wide enough for two wagons. Each proceeds from one of the sixteen shadowgates that are spaced along the rim of the Plain; each ends in the center, at a crumbling palace where the guardian golem Shivetya sits pinned to his increasingly unstable throne._

_It has been millennia since anyone has used the Plain. But there are travelers on it now, a score of hardened men in armor and leather masks. They are riding hard, having been herded onto the plain by an army that seeks to destroy them. These men are mercenaries, the last survivors of the company known as the Tears of Blood. They know that they are going to die, that they cannot stand for long against the army that hounds them, an army that believes it is their holy duty to destroy the Tears to the last man and erase their existence from history. _

_But the Tears of Blood are, above all, survivors. They know this will be their last stand, and they are determined to make the enemy's victory a costly one. So they have ridden hard, through the crumbling palace, and taken a position at the end of another road with their backs to the shadowgate there. They know the enemy will not dare leave the road to surround them. They will force the army to come to them, and they will die on their feet._

Part 2: The Dhorisha Plains

Vir'hada shena Pretera'sedrin watched with pride as her student Darrim deflected the levin-bolts she threw at him without losing his concentration on the ley-line he was re-routing to the clan's Heartstone.

For the last century and a half, the nomadic Shin'a'in had been gradually incorporating magic into their lives. They had learned many techniques from their cousins, the tree-dwelling Taleydras, but saw no need to copy the Taleydras methods exactly. The Shin'a'in had made several innovations of their own suited to a life that changed with the seasons, including a very important one to the Heartstones.

Each clan's Heartstone could be induced by an Adept of that clan to produce several smaller versions of itself. Each smaller stone retained its connection to the larger, and so to the ley-lines that fed it. Thus, a Shin'a'in Adept never had to fear traveling too far from the power of his Heartstone.

Now, under Darrim's direction, the Cat Clan's stone did just that. Vir'hada saw the green striated surface ripple like water. The old shaman Felt the energies of the stone gather, and push, and her eyes observed the fist-sized chunk emerge from the greater mass. Darrim plucked the small stone from its parent, and placed it in the pouch around his neck, turning to his teacher with a grin of pride.

Vir'hada smiled as well and removed the shields she had placed around the Heartstone's glade. "Very well done," was her only comment, but the boy—no, she corrected herself, the Adept—beamed even brighter at the rare compliment.

"Have you given any thought to your Adept contribution?" Vir'hada asked.

"Yes, _ha'shin_," he responded promptly. His chin came up, and he looked his mentor in the eye. "I wish to attempt to re-activate one of Urtho's great Gates," he said firmly.

The old woman cocked her head to fix him with a look from her better eye. "One of Urtho's Gates?" she repeated. "When it has not yet been proven that it indeed, safe to gate at all? When we do not fully understand the principles behind the greater Gates? When we are not even certain where those gates lead?"

Darrim's gaze was steady as he answered his teacher. "It is true that it has not been proven safe yet," he said. "Which is why I will test it first with a crate of minor items. If it is undamaged, I will send a bird. If it arrives safe, then I will step through myself."

"As for the principles behind the permanent Gates…as you know, I have been studying with the Hardornen mages as well, and they have gone to great lengths to preserve their knowledge of such things. I believe I understand them as well as anyone can, who has never tried to use them. That same knowledge, together with the knowledge of the An'desha, the Shin'a'in First Mage, is what has given me the idea that once activated, _I_ can set the destination of the Gate."

"Think of it, _ha'shin_!" Darrim's eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "If this works, what an advantage it will be for the Alliance! For the first time ever, we would have free travel between Hardorn, Valdemar, Rethwellan, and the Plains. It could be one of the Alliances greatest advantages."

Vir'hada folded her hands into the sleeves of her scarlet shirt. Obviously, the boy that given the matter a great deal of thought. And if he could pull it off, and the Star-Eyed allowed it, than it was meant to be. And if not…well, Kal'enal had Her ways of dealing with fools. Or rather, of letting them deal with themselves.

And so it was that she found herself three weeks later, at a pile of ancient stones that stood at the edge of the Plains. At one time, this had been Taleydras territory. But they had moved on, as was their habit after cleansing an area of dangerous magics and creatures that lived there. But others had moved in, and Vir'hada looked up as a cry like a raptor's echoed down to her ears. A dark dot in the sky quickly gained form, resolving into a creature something like an eagle, and something like a great cat, swift and sleek and magnificently dangerous.

The griffon backwinged and landed neatly before Vir'hada and Darrim. "Ho, brrotherrss to horrssess!" she trilled in excellent Shin'a'in. "I am Shestryl, of the Silverr Grriffonss. The Kal'ad'in have ssent me to observe this little experiment!"

Darrim nodded respectfully to the griffon. "Yes, Frostfire said someone would meet us," he said. "I am glad to find it was someone as charming and lovely as you."

"Flatterrerr," she answered, pleased. She _was_ a pretty thing, a sleek falcon type with slate gray plumage and dark malar-stripes. The last three handspans of her primary feathers had been bleached and then painted in red stripes, denoting her position among the Silver Griffons. She wore a harness of smooth and shining leather, which had several pouches and cylinders attached to it. And her talons, though impressive enough, were not as large or as prominent as those of most other griffons. They looked a great deal like human hands, actually, and were just as dexterous as she reached for one of the cylinders and unclipped it, handing it to Darrim with a gaping grif-grin.

"Herre," she said. "A message from Frrosstfirre. He said that since I wass coming herre anyway, there wass no rreason I couldn't brring it with me!"

Darrim unrolled the message inside and read it carefully. Vir'hada waited patiently; this was Darrim's endeavor after all. If he thought she needed to read it, he would show it to her.

Apparently not, though, because he only smiled and tucked the message inside one of his fringed sleeves. "Was it a long flight?" he asked courteously of Shestryl. "Would you like to rest before we begin?"

The griffon only puffed out her feathers and clacked her beak. "No one else in the Silverr Griffonss can fly as farr and as fasst ass I!" she boasted. "I ate well before I left the Vale—I am rready when you arre!"

"Very well, then," Darrim. "Let us begin."

_On the Plain of Glittering Stone, the Tears of Blood gather around their standard. The standard-bearer spies a depression in the ground before the shadowgate, and plants the base of her staff there, unfurling the company banner. _

_A subtle change thrums through the road and the gate, nearly imperceptible, and certainly ignored by the Tears. But the wizard-prophet who commands the army knows what has happened, and he howls his frustration as the very event he hoped to prevent comes about._

_"KILL THEM," echoes the command through the ranks, and the holy warriors surge forward, each of them determined to earn his place in Paradise._

Darrim picked his way to the center of the ruins, where a half-fallen arch marked the location of Urtho's ancient Gate. He grounded his power deep into the earth and created a shield between himself and the observers with an ease that made Vir'hada proud. Then he reached for both the power of Pretera'sedrin's Heartstone, and for the node that lay deep beneath the earth. Vir'hada was conscious of the shimmer of power that played over the arch. Suddenly she both saw and Saw the arch as it must have been before, a ghostly overlay on the crumbled reality. She realized she was holding her breath, and made a conscious effort to breath normally. Next to her, Shestryl muttered in the musical griffon tongue.

Darrim raised his hands, directing energy gathered from Heartstone and node into a portal of crackling light. The center became black, and Vir'hada Saw tendrils of seeking energy, spinning out, searching for the destination that Darrim struggled to hold clear in his mind. She sensed him weaken physically; this was why gates were, traditionally, so draining and difficult to build. Only one mind could guide it, because no two people ever had exactly the same perception of the same place. But the young Adept did not falter, and suddenly Vir'hada had that sense of "rightness" that any mage feels when a spell is properly completed.

In the next instant, she felt as if some giant hand had picked up the earth on which she was standing and shaken it violently. She fell to the ground as vertigo overwhelmed her, and as her vision blurred she heard Darrim's exclamation and Shestryl's panicked scream. She looked up in time to see the portal glowing incandescently. Dim shapes seemed to move beyond the light. But Darrim was outlined against the mage-fire of the portal, desperately trying to keep it from overloading.

_Dear Lady,_ thought Vir'hada frantically,_ he's going to channel it all through _himself!_ He'll never survive that kind of—_

She could Feel the power fluctuating as Darrim tried to control it, but she couldn't tell why. What had happened to make this go so horrifically wrong? Vir'hada struggled to her feet, determined to get through the shields, but before she could even raise a hand, Darrim cried one last word—

And the gate exploded in a searing burst of energy. It ripped through the shields as if they were so much gauze, catching Vir'hada and Shestryl in the blast. As the old shaman staggered and finally fell, she caught a glimpse of several other figures scattered around Darrim, silent and unmoving.


	2. Chapter 2

Shestryl was the first to regain consciousness. The griffon blinked, wondering why she was staring up at the sky. This wasn't right…

Carefully, she picked herself out of the bush where she lay sprawled untidily. "_Hurr_," she muttered to herself as she cautiously stretched each wing. "Nothing broken, I don't think…"

Then she caught sight of the scarlet-clad form that lay unmoving nearby. She clacked her beak in alarm and hopped the two steps to turn Vir'hada over gently with one fore-claw. The old shaman was breathing, Shestryl noticed with relief. Nothing more could be done just now, so Shestryl turned her attention to Darrim.

The massive energies of the gate and the Void beyond it had reduced the Adept to a mere husk. Shestryl felt her throat tighten with grief as she observed his shriveled body, no heavier than a child's. But…the griffon blinked as she looked around and saw several other bodies as well. They had been bleached by their passage through the Void, but Shestryl saw that they were all alive.

_Stupid griffon,_ she admonished herself. _First thing to do is get help. And don't you have a teleson set for a reason?_ She fumbled the odd coils of wire out of one of her many pouches and set it correctly on her head. As always, she felt that odd echoing inside her skull, as if her thoughts were suddenly bouncing off of the walls of a cave. _:Frostfire!_ She sent, and was rewarded with an immediate answer.

_:Shestryl, what happened? We Felt the disturbance all the way at the Vale!_

_:The experiment…failed. Darrim is dead and his teacher injured. Part of it is physical, I think, and part of it backlash from being too close to the gate when it—when it exploded. And Frostfire—there are others here who are injured. I—I think they came from the other side of the gate._

There was a moment of mental silence, and Shestryl got the impression that she had managed to startle the normally unflappable Adept. Then she Heard, _:We will send someone as quickly as possible. You know what to do in the meantime._

Shestryl removed the teleson. She did indeed know what to do—all of the Silver Griffons were trained in basic field medicine. And she, with her human-like "hands" was better at it than most of her race.

The first, most immediate need was shelter. All of the humans were in shock, and would die if they weren't kept warm, even on a balmy day like this one. Quickly she scraped bracken together to form a sort of pallet. Then, one by one, she began dragging the humans to the make-shift "bed", starting with Vir'hada.

When she got to the first of the strangers, she scented blood. Peering closer, she realized that he was injured. In fact, all of them were bleeding, and all but one clutched weapons. And weirdly enough, all of them wore leather masks.

_Damn._ She had no bandages with her, and there was nothing she could use except…her eyes fell on Darrim's body, and she sighed. Well, he certainly wouldn't be needing his clothes any longer. Praying that Kal'enal would understand, the griffon used her beak to rip the mage's robes into strips she could use to bind wounds. When she had them all treated and resting as well as she could, she covered them with the remains of Darrim's clothes and her own wide wings, and settled down to wait for help.

Squeaky drifted through dreams in which real memories mingled with most absurd fantasies. Most vivid of the memories was standing at her Captain's elbow and facing Ram Singh's army of fanatics. She remembered firing arrow after arrow into the endless line of screaming fighters. She remembered Morg lifting his axe and going into one of his berserk frenzies, mowing down the entire front line before he had disappeared beneath a pile of bodies intent on tearing him apart. She remembered Maul and No leaping into the fray, each accounting for perhaps a dozen men before she couldn't see them any more. She remembered the look of grim hatred which was the last memory she had of her brother's face, and the eloquent expression in her lover's eyes, eyes that held all the words he refused to voice.

But she also dreamed of soft music, green and gold and blue, music that danced through her brain and brought deep and restful sleep. She dreamed of bright blue eyes in a woman's kind face, and of cold clawed hands that held her gently and bade her drink something that tasted better than anything else she'd ever put to her lips. She dreamed of the sound of gently falling water and birdsong and once again that joyous verdant music.

When her eyes fluttered open in truth, she thought that she must be still dreaming. She was comfortable, neither too hot not too cold, laying on something that cradled her body gently. Her very tired body, she noticed, and then wondered how she could be so tired when she'd slept for…how long had she been asleep? And where was she anyway? And where—dear gods, what had happened to everybody else?

The frantic questions drove her to sit up. Or at least, she tried to sit up. She made it half way and was forced to stop, panting with exhaustion and whining a little with frustration. She clutched at the green leafy curtain that surrounded her, finding that it was not really leaves but cunningly woven cloth. Her grip pulled it aside somewhat, and she caught a glimpse of a large room with several other small beds like the one she lay in. The one right next to hers—so close she could have touched it if she'd had the energy to reach out—held a large man whose curly brown hair was threaded with gray. One side of his face was horrifically disfigured, as if burned by acid at some point in the past, and Squeaky let out a little sob of pure relief as she recognized her Captain.

A whisper of sound from the opposite corner made Squeaky tense and whip her head around as a tall graceful woman stepped around yet another curtain. The woman smiled at Squeaky, then quickly moved to support the shaky scout as the last of her reserves gave out.

"Gently," said the woman softly. "You have been many days in bed, and your body is still very weak. You must be almost as a child again, and go gently as you learn to walk and feed and dress yourself again."

Squeaky blushed. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I—I don't mean to be such trouble."

The woman smiled kindly as she slid an arm around Squeaky's waist. "You have been very little trouble these last weeks," she said, "and any trouble you are likely to get into now means that you are getting better, and that is all any Healer or _kestra'chern_ could ask. Now," she asked briskly, "what would you like first? Food, or a bath?"

Squeaky realized that her stomach was so empty that she felt almost sick, but even worse was the way her skin crawled with the need for a bath. "I—I think I'd like to get clean," she said hesitantly.

"Very well then," said the woman, and she eased Squeaky out of the bed. The scout wobbled as her legs tried to collapse, but the healer let her cling to her arms until her balance was steadier, and then led her, step by slow shuffling step, beyond the curtain.

The sound of falling water was louder here, and there was a faintly metallic tang in the air. Squeaky's eyes went round as she saw the pools of gently steaming water, cupped in shallow bowls of natural rock. The woman led her to the highest one, and helped her ease into the water. Squeaky gasped again as the heat enveloped her, and then moaned in pure bliss. It was hotter than any bath she'd ever had, and seemed to want to turn her whole body into mush.

"Here is soap," the woman was saying, "and here are cloths for washing. When you are clean, go to the higher pool, for resting. I will have Resten leave you a robe, and get you something to eat."

"Wait," Squeaky blurted. "What about the others? My Company? Will they be all right?"

Sorrow veiled the woman's eyes for a moment, and abruptly she leaned over to place a kiss on Squeaky's forehead. "They will wake soon," she said. "Their injuries were…severe. And when you are all awake, then it will be time for speech about where you are, and how you got here, and what your plans will be from there."

The scout washed with soft soap that smelled of herbs, even managing to get her hair clean. She had another bad moment when, as she was lowering herself into the other pool, a lizard-like face suddenly emerged from the bushes. The face was attached to a creature perhaps four feet tall, and shaped like a lizard but walking on its hind legs. It carried some sort of bundle in its hands, and bore enough of a resemblance to the Dominator's snaky servants that Squeaky screamed, lost her grip, and slipped beneath the surface of the water.

With a speed that belied its reptilian appearance, the lizard-thing ran to the pool and fished out the spluttering scout, briskly thumping the water from her lungs. When she had stopped choking, it reached for the bundle it had dropped and began drying her off with a soft towel, then draped a warm blue robe about her shoulders.

"Th-thank you," Squeaky stuttered. She shivered with reaction, and the creature eyed her for a moment.

"Humph!" it replied. "Silly humans. Go out and fight, get hurt and have to come back for Healing. And who does all the washing and cleaning and cooking for poor sick humans, hmm? Resten and other _hertasi_, that's who." The creature—or _hertasi_—pulled Squeaky to her feet. "Speaking of cooking, it's time and enough that you were awake to actually taste what I make for you. Come, come—you cannot regain your strength on broth and tea!"

The man known as One emerged from tangled impressions of pain into a warm safe darkness. Pain fled; he was conscious instead of a presence that seemed to shield him. Vankar's shield, His reward to those who died in His service. Content that he had managed that much, One slept dreamlessly.

When he awoke, it was abrupt with no fanfare. He looked up at the leafy green canopy overhead, and puzzled at the lassitude that weighed down his limbs. He was in no pain, but he wasn't at all certain that he was dead. For one thing, he was thirsty. And incredibly hungry. Only one way to find out for certain. With a groan at the sheer effort such a simple act cost him, One levered himself upright against the soft cushions that cradled him.

He surveyed the room—if that was the right word for a place that seemed grown as much as built. It held other beds like his—some occupied, some not. His trident was leaning against the wall nearby—One reached for it, feeling the sweat beading on his brow at the incredible strain such a simple act required. His hand grasped the cool metal, and he used it to pull himself the rest of the way up, resting his feet on the floor.

He stopped, partly out of weakness, and partly to stare at his own hand. It was striped, like one of the horse-like zebras he'd hunted in his youth. Something had leached the black pigment from part of his skin. A quick glance determined that the effect extended to his entire body.

Then there was a flutter of movement out of the corner of his eye, and a monster stepped into his view.

The fore of the creature was something like a falcon. The cranium was perhaps a bit larger in proportion, but it had a falcon's striped plumage and large yellow eyes. As well as a beak large enough to sever a horse's spine. The back part, One observed, was more like a great cat—like one of the lions he had competed with for the zebras. All four legs ended in talons nearly as long as his hand, and a huge pair of wings was neatly folded on its back. It cocked its head curiously as he struggled to stand.

"Arre you one of the Haileigh?" it asked, perfectly understandable despite the slight trill.

Coherent human speech was _not_ what One had expected, and the shock sent him nearly to his knees. "Highly _what_?" he managed to ask.

That great beak gaped in what was unmistakably a smile. "I ssupposse not," the creature said. "I thought you might be one of the Haileigh warrriorrss. They'rre big and black, like you."

One took a moment to process this before answering. "I am not one of the Haileigh," he said. "I am called One. And I am…not as black as I used to be."

It—no, _she_, he realized—made a gurgling sound that was unmistakably laughter. "That iss temporary," she said. "I am Shestryl. And you arre likely hungrry. Some of yourr Company is awake, and having a meal. "Would you like to join them now? Orr would you like a bath firsst?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Food first," he decided. "Then a bath."

"Then lean on me," she said, and began to maneuver her body next to his.

But One shook his head. "No," he said. "I will manage."

Shestryl cocked her head again to study him as he sat summoning the energy for his next attempt. "If you ssay sso," she said cheerfully. And did not say anything else as he rose and made his way slowly to the waiting table.

The Captain of the Tears of Blood lay swimming in sea of blood and guilt. He had been responsible for the lives and livelihood of nearly five hundred men. And he had seen them cut down for no crime other than being what they were.

Why did they hate us so much? He wondered. What threat did we pose to them that they should hunt us down? Now, as then, there were no answers, and over and over, he watched as they appeared before him, still bearing their death-wounds, demanding to know why he had led them to their deaths.

I didn't know, he told them silently. I didn't know.

Then something seemed to stand between him and the gruesome visions. A cool voice and soft music intervened, drowning out the voices. A dim veil cut him off from the specters, allowing him a measure of peace as he slept.

He woke as he had so often recently, feeling Squeaky's warm body snuggled next to his. Unconsciously, he raised a hand to stroke her back, and she stirred, and squealed piercingly.

"Knuckles! You're awake!"

"What…yes, I'm awake," he mumbled. He opened his eyes and blinked. Squeaky's face was inches away from his, but why were there leaves behind her? Had they had to camp? Why was he so comfortable if he'd been sleeping on the ground?

Automatically, he tried to sit up. Squeaky grasped his hand and braced him as he managed to get his torso upright, then nearly fell over again, winded from the effort.

"Wh-where the hell are we?" he managed to ask.

"You are in my chambers in the Vale of the Kala'd'in K'leshya," said a new voice.

Knuckles beheld a woman with bright blue eyes, golden skin, and lovely aquiline features. "And who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"I am the _kestra'chern_ Nightsong," she said. "You and your shieldbrothers have been my guests for many days now, and you are one of the last to awaken. Your wounds were…deeper than others, and took more time to Heal. But now you will be better served by becoming accustomed again to motion, and by eating real food and not the soups and teas which were the only things we could feed you. Come; there is food prepared, or your shieldmate can show you where the pools are if you wish to bathe first. I will have Resten bring you something to wear in just a moment."

She turned to leave, but Knuckles interrupted. "Wait," he said. "Why are you doing all of this for us?"

Nightsong regarded the mercenary captain with surprise, and then shook her head. "Because you need it," she replied, and then left.

Carefully, Knuckles lowered himself into the hot spring and reached for the soap. "Ok, Squeak," he said as he began scrubbing, "fill me in. The last thing I remember is being on the Plain, getting ready for Ram Singh's fanatics to cut us down."

"That's the last thing I remember, too," Squeaky said. "Until I woke up a couple of days ago. Knuckles…" the scout's voice betrayed her anxiety, "this is the _weirdest_ place I've ever seen! Have you noticed, you understood everything Nightsong said to us?"

"Well, yeah, she was speaking Rosean…"

But Squeaky shook her head. "No, she wasn't. She was speaking her language, Kalad'a'in. But you understood her, because she put it in your head—she put it all of our heads—while we were sleeping."

Knuckles thought—really thought—about the words coming from the woman's mouth. "Huh," he said. "You're right. But it felt natural, like I'd always known it."

Squeaky nodded vigorously. "If you think about it, you can even spot some gaps, like where there isn't a good word for a concept in, say, Foresberger or Rosean," she said. "Like _kestra'chern_. There's nothing quite the same in any language I know, so it doesn't translate."

"And the _people_ here—half of 'em walk on four legs! There's things like lizards that seem to do most of the cooking and washing, and things like wolves and deer that talk in your head, and then there's the griffons…They're so nice and polite you could almost forget that they're big enough to eat you whole!" Squeaky shuddered. "Yesterday I stepped out of these rooms just to see if I could—you wouldn't believe the size of the trees in this place—well, look at that wall there."

Knuckles turned his head, and realized that what he's assumed was an ordinary wooden wall was in fact covered in bark, and had a slight curve to it. "That's…a tree?" he guessed.

Squeaky nodded. "Seems like most of this place is built above the ground," she said. "Not that I went far—it wouldn't be hard to get lost out there, until you were a little more familiar with the layout."

Knuckles submerged briefly, rinsing the soap from his face and hair, then reached for the towel Squeaky held out to him. "Ok…what about this woman, this Nightsong?" he asked. "What do you mean, she put the language in our heads?"

The scout's face was solemn, and a little scared. "That's just what I mean," she said. "Some of them—maybe all of them—they have this way of talking in your head. I mean, you don't hear it with your ears at all. And I guess they can do things other than talk. Nightsong knew you and I were lovers, and that One was your first officer. And—everybody calls me Tara." Knuckles raised an eyebrow. He was one of the few people who remembered Squeaky's birth name.

The thought of someone rummaging around in his head made Knuckles profoundly uneasy. He let Squeaky help him out of the pool and began drying himself off. "What else?" he asked. "I know there's something else—you've got that look on your face, the one you get when there's something you don't want to talk about."

Her answer was slow. "Have you noticed that it's easier to talk without slurring you words?" she asked carefully.

"I—what?" Since a monster's acidic venom had literally eaten part of the flesh of his face five years ago, Knuckles had gotten used to taking special care when eating and speaking. Now, he hurriedly felt his left cheek, still expecting to encounter a gaping hole. Instead, his fingers met only skin—ridged with scar tissue and coarse with stubble, but skin nonetheless.

"There's still a lot of scarring," Squeaky was saying, "but now—well, I don't think you'd scare anybody if you went out without your mask."

His hands shook a little as he reached for the clothes she handed him—and then he got another surprise. "Where are my clothes?" he asked.

Squeaky made a face. "The _hertasi_ probably kidnapped them," she said. "They took everybody's, I think. When I ask where they are, they just give me this _look_, and say they're 'being cleaned.'" Now she smiled. "It's ok, though. I like the things they've been leaving out for me." She spread her arms to display the outfit she was wearing. "They're very comfortable, and they look bright, but they'd blend a lot better than you'd think in the forest—if we were in an actual forest."

"Huh." Knuckles took a closer look at Squeaky. The tunic she was wearing was a mottled red and brown, with a subtle pattern of knotwork along the edges. Those edges looked ragged at first, until you realized that they'd been cut in the shapes of autumn leaves. Little antler-tips fastened the front, and the hem came almost to the knees of the matching trousers. Both were cut close to the body, though not so close they impeded movement. Glancing at the pile in his hands, Knuckles realized that his were of a similar cut, though in mottled greens. Grimacing at the loss of yet another familiar thing, he slipped on the new clothes. Squeak was right, he realized; they were comfortable. Then he noticed yet another anomaly. "When did you become a blond?" he asked.

Squeaky tugged at her hair self-consciously. The sun-streaked brown had lightened to blond, and all traces of tan had faded, leaving her with the peaches-and-cream complexion she'd had when she first joined the company. Even her eyes had lightened, turning the hazel into a clear light green.

"Nightsong says that's another effect of the magic that brought us here," she answered. "Something about node energies and bleaching. She says it's temporary, though." She grinned suddenly "Just try not to laugh when you see One. He's striped!"

"What did it do to me?"

She cocked her head. "Not much. You've got no tan left, and your eyes are kind of a steel-gray. And there's some white in your hair, right at the temples. Makes you look a little older, that's all."

"All right," he sighed, shaking the last of the water out of his hair. "Where's the food I smell?"


	3. Chapter 3

A rousing cheer went up from the gathered company when Knuckles accompanied Squeaky into the next room. If you could call it a room, when there was no ceiling. Warm sunlight streamed down over a long table that was crowded with platters and dishes. If his men had had any trepidation about Kalad'a'in hospitality, it had long since vanished. They ate with good appetite—and with good reason, if Knuckles' own growling stomach was any example.

They made room for him, and passed him a wooden mug and a platter full of bits of food that were for the most part unidentifiable, yet smelled delicious. The mug proved to contain some sort of fruit juice, rich with minerals and possessing a slight astringency that satisfied a deep thirst far better than water. There were no eating knives, but all of the food was designed to be picked up and nibbled. Knuckles selected a piece of flatbread topped with a slab of something pink, shaped like a flower. "Am I supposed to eat this or wear it?" he wondered.

"It's some kind of smoked fish, I think," said a voice to his right. Knuckles turned and saw his company engineer Topper plowing through a plate of his own. The big man looked to have lost any extra flesh he might have once possessed, and was bleached even paler than Squeaky. His hair was nearly white, and his eyes ice-blue. "Sure tastes better than the stuff my Mam used to feed us, though!"

Knuckles tasted it gingerly, and was amazed by the rich flavor. Two bites later, it was gone, and he selected something else at random. His mug was repeatedly refilled, and conversation was limited to requests to "pass me some more of that." As he ate, Knuckles took stock of the table, and his heart sank. Squeaky, Topper, and One, who was indeed zebra-striped…No sat at the end of the table with his sword strapped to his back…he had trouble identifying the man at the other end of the table, and then realized it was Maul. It had been so long since he'd seen him without his cowl and mask

"Is this it?" he asked. "Did anybody else…"

He let his voice trail off as the rest of the company stopped eating. Squeaky laid her hand on his wrist. "This is it, Captain," she confirmed. "Nobody else…came through. I think we have to assume…" She choked, and Knuckles nodded, feeling his eyes fill with tears. He pushed aside his empty plate and let them fall. He did not sob; he only wept, a tear for each man, the only funeral he could give them. He was not ashamed of this. They had been family, all of them, from the greenest recruit to the hardest veteran. You did not let your family die unmourned.

But it soon passed, and he wiped his eyes dry, and looked up to see the others looking at him expectantly.

"What now, Captain?" asked Topper.

Before Knuckles could answer, a new voice interrupted. "A very good question. Now that you are all awake and fed, and have something of your bearings about you, I believe it is time to address that very issue."

_A sword of crystal._ That was the impression of every member of the Tears. The speaker was as slim and straight as a sword blade, with hair the same glistening white as pure ice. His eyes were blue, pale and clear, yet so penetrating that each member of the company wondered that were not wounded as he eyed them in turn.

He was dressed in red—but that didn't even begin to describe his costume. Layered robes, made of something that draped like silk, shaded from a brilliant crimson near his shoulders to palest rose at the hem. Matching cords were braided into his hair, each ending in a point of polished rose quartz. He radiated an impression of both age and great power, yet his face was smooth and unlined. "I am called Frostfire," he said. "I am something of a leader among the mages of this Vale; I wish to ascertain who you are, where you came from, and how you got here."

Everyone looked at Knuckles; he took a deep breath. "I suppose I'm as qualified as any to tell you who we are and where we came from, since I was the captain of this outfit."

"Still are," Squeaky muttered.

"As for how we got here…I can tell you what happened. But I'm a soldier, not a wizard. I don't know how magic works." He slanted a glance at Maul, who was studying Frostfire intensely. "There are one or two of us who may be able to tell you more."

Frostfire nodded, and then selected a seat across from Knuckles, next to One. He poured himself a mug of the fruit drink and looked directly at the Captain. "Nightsong has undoubtedly gleaned some of this from you already. Her abilities require her to be very close within a patient's mind for her to help, and you were all in great need of help when you arrived so suddenly. However, as benefits a _kestra'chern_, she is also the soul of discretion. So, begin at the beginning, as you see it."

Knuckles nodded, rested his arms on the table, and took a moment to collect his still somewhat scattered thoughts.

"We were—we _are_—a mercenary company, the Tears of Blood," he began. "We split from a larger company five years ago, a hundred of us. We—I was elected Captain, and I elected to take my men south."

He didn't feel the need to explain that the decision had been absolutely necessary; the Lady, the sorcerer-empress of the northern continent, had made it clear that the fate of the Tears, should they stay, would be unpleasant.

"We'd been there—almost two years, I think, when we heard rumors of a some sort of prophet, a holy man named Ram Singh. He was speaking out, decrying our presence. He—we couldn't get away from him, there was no reasoning with him, we never even actually met the man. I don't even know what he had against us, but he was doing a fine job of playing on the local religious prejudices."

"It became clear after a while that he didn't just want us gone. He wanted us _destroyed_. He managed to get a bunch of the local warlords to throw in with him, and come after us with an army."

His eyes were anguished. "I had five hundred men under my command when Ram Singh began his campaign. By the time he'd hounded us to the Plain of Glittering Stone, I had twenty."

"I don't know what the Plain is. You can just walk across it, and nothing happens. Or you can go through the gate. Maul figured how to open the gate—we were hoping Singh wouldn't be able to follow us, or wouldn't dare." He shrugged bitterly. "He did, of course, him and his army. So we crossed the Plain, looking for a place to make a last stand. There was a palace, falling down around itself—we couldn't stop, we took one of the other roads. And there was another gate at the end of it."

Knuckles' eyes never wavered from Frostfire's. "The Plain is strange. And dangerous. Once you've gone through the gate, it's deadly to leave the road. These things roam the Plain, like shadows, but their touch—men die screaming. We knew Singh's men wouldn't leave the road to surround us, so that was where we stopped."

"I planted the standard," Squeaky interrupted. "I was—am—the standard bearer. I—I may be wrong, I'm no wizard either, but I thought I felt something."

Maul nodded. "It wasn't her imagination," he said. "Something _did_ happen. Whatever it was, I think Ram Singh felt it, too. I _am_ something of a wizard, and I could feel his—his rage and frustration. I felt a surge in spell-energy—and the army—"

"The army ran over us," Knuckles finished flatly. "In a matter of seconds. We were going to die. And then there was a pull from the gate, and this sound—I can't describe it. But it felt like something grabbed me and pulled me backwards."

"Everything went white," Squeaky said. "And then we woke up here."

Maul looked troubled. "I've felt something like that before," he said, and had the eye of everyone at the table. "It—when you plane-shift—it feels like that. Only it's usually a little more…controlled."

"Plane-shift?" Frostfire cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

Maul licked his lips and struggled to find the words in Kalad'a'in. "It's possible to travel between worlds under one's own power. Among the people I learned it from, it's called 'plane-shifting.' It's also possible to connect worlds with temporary or permanent portals—like the ones on the Plain of Glittering Stone. I can't imagine how Squeaky managed to activate the gate there, but she did somehow. And the Plain was—is—unimaginably old—too many ways to count for the spells to fuck up."

Frostfire sighed, and closed his eyes. "Too true," he murmured, then sat forward. "I am forced to conclude," he said, "that your being here was nothing more than an accident. One which unfortunately cost the life of a Shin'a'in Adept, and I am certain that the Shin'a'in will have something to say about it. There is also the problem of what you will do once you leave this Vale. Not that we wish to drive you out, but _we_ have no need of mercenaries. However, there are always those that do. We will offer you time, time to recover your strength, to learn something of the world as it stands, and perhaps then you will then have a clearer idea of where to go and what to do."

Knuckles was silent for a moment. He looked at the remains of his company. Six men, including Squeaky and himself. Every one of them looked back at him with trust, somehow certain that he would make the right decision. He focused on at One. "You're my second," he said in the Opal dialect. "And you've been awake longer. What do you think?"

One's answer was immediate. "There are far worse places we could recover," he said. "And I do not necessarily think this was an accident. I sense Vancor's hand in this."

Knuckles refrained from commenting on that last. One's devotion to his god was well known, but not necessarily shared. Personally, Knuckles had never taken notice of any particular deity, and they hadn't taken any of him, which was all to the good as far as he was concerned. But Maul snorted.

"I hope it _is_ an accident," he declared, "because I'm getting _damned_ tired of being jerked around by the gods!"

"All right," Knuckles continued before the discussion could degenerate further, "this is as good a place to recover as any. But let's think about what comes after that. Are we still a Company? Should we try to raise the standard again? Or should we disband?"

Squeaky looked like she'd been slapped. "We can't disband!" she exclaimed.

Emotionally, he agreed with her. But he felt compelled to argue the point. "A Company needs two things," he said quietly, "men, and funds. We don't have either one right now. And without a reputation, we're not likely to attract the kind of people I'd want to be a part of a good Company."

It was true. Maul, Squeaky, and One had been there the last time this vote had been taken. They had had a hundred men, and while the greater part of the war chests had disappeared with the old Black Company, the Lady's silver had seen them through until they started receiving commissions. Broke as they were now, with no one knowing _who_ they were, they'd likely attract only prison scum and shepherd's daughters.

Squeaky's brow furrowed, and Knuckles could practically hear the wheels tuning in her head. "What if…" she began slowly, "what if we split up and went freelance for a while? We could build a stake and a reputation, and then get together again. It would take a while, a couple of years maybe, but it's the only way I see short of a personal favor from a crowned head or Vancor dropping a bag of silver in our laps."

There was silence from the rest as they contemplated that idea. Maul was the first to speak. "It…could work," he said slowly. "And if it doesn't, we're no worse off than we were before."

Topper spoke up next. "We could go out in pairs," he said. "You couldn't pry the Captain 'n Squeaky apart with a crowbar anyway. I guess I could go with Maul, and One and No might make a good team. Better 'n goin' solo, anyway."

Knuckles nodded, and looked at No. The little man had laid his sword across his lap and was muttering to himself in the sing-song Nyueng Bao language. "What do you think, No?" Knuckles asked.

The little man's muttering subsided for a moment. "Is good plan. But I go with Maul. More silver to be had there, at the cards." He grinned broadly, and Knuckles sighed. The pair of them had no compunction about fleecing the gullible during a game of tonk. More to the point, they were very good at it.

"All right," Knuckles said, "but don't forget there are people here who can pull the thoughts right out of your brain. Be careful who you scam." He looked at One and Topper.

"That just leaves you two," he said. "Think you can work together?"

The two looked obliquely at each other. One was an open votary of his god Vancor. Topper followed the faith of his home city of Juniper—in fact had been a Custodian charged with caring for the vast catacombs beneath the city before joining first the Black Company and later the Tears of Blood. One spoke first.

"Surely, Vancor had a purpose in sending us here," he said, and his deep voice was deceptively placid. "For such an opportunity, I can work with the infidel. His eyes will be open in time, to the truth of the One God."

"Sez you," Topper grunted. "Preach all you like, holy man. Personally, I gotta lot more faith in how you use that fishin' spear you carry."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Knuckles said dryly. He looked at Frostfire, who had been waiting with no sign of impatience. "We'd like to recover here," he said, remembering to speak Kalad'a'in. "When we're fit, we'll leave."

"And what will you do?" asked Frostfire.

"We'll raise a stake, and make our name," he said. "And then we'll raise our standard again."


	4. Chapter 4

**Masks and Mirrors**

_A/N: Things will start diverging after this chapter; I'll be concentrating on two main characters at a time instead of six.__Sorry for the slow progress--the so-called "real world" occasionally interferes._

_ As usual, I own nothing but my own characters. Thanks to Mercedes Lackey, Glen Cook, and the boys for letting me play with their toys.  
_

Knuckles looked at the mask in his hands. It was made mostly of leather, carved and stitched with intimidating patterns scrolling across the surface. It covered half of his face, with an arrangement of buckles and straps to hold it in place, and the jaw was cleverly hinged so that he could speak and even eat while wearing it.

He looked up from the mask, took a deep breath, and pulled the embroidered cover off of the mirror before him. For five years he had avoided looking at himself. Now, he steeled himself and took a good long look at the man reflected in the clear glass.

He saw a big man who'd recently lost a lot of weight. The loss of muscle gave him a rangy, rawboned look, and his calloused hands seemed too big for his frame. There was gray threaded through the brown curls that had been a source of embarrassment for him as a boy. The gray added years to his appearance—but not as many years as the lines carved into his face.

_My god_, he wondered. _Do I really look that hard?_

His face…unconsciously, he leaned closer to the glass. Five years ago, one of the Dominator's snaky servants had spat a blast of acidic venom at his squad. Everyone else had managed to avoid the spray—except for Squeaky, who had tripped. Knuckles had planted himself directly between her and the spray. His eyes had been spared, but the venom had eaten away the skin and muscle of the left side of his face, exposing bone and even teeth. The pain had been excruciating, and healing limited to stemming potential infection. He had been left looking like something out of a nightmare.

Now he reached up to touch the slightly sunken pockmarks beneath his eyes. The bone had been exposed there; now they had filled in with scar tissue. He turned his head to observe the ridged livid scar that had replaced the gaping hole in his cheek, running his fingers over it lightly. It pulled his mouth a bit to the left, giving him a slightly cynical aspect. His beard was growing in, he noted absently, but it was patchy, like a badly sheared sheep. He'd have to shave soon.

Overall…it wasn't too bad, he decided. He still wasn't pretty, but he didn't figure women and children would run screaming from him.

His thoughtful gaze returned to the mask in his hands. Squeaky had made it for him, wracked with guilt over her part in his disfigurement. It was a nice piece of work; the girl had a talent for working with leather. At first, she had only used it to repair and refit leather armor; later, she had begun making more masks. Somehow, those masks had become the signature of the Tears of Blood. No uniforms or badges for them—just the masks. The majority were not as unique or as intimidating as his, but all of the command staff had gotten something that suited them, made with Squeaky's own two hands. A guilt-gift had become a source of company pride.

He didn't need the mask any more. But he'd keep it, he decided. It was still a symbol of the company, of what they had been, and of what they hoped to be again.

He heard light footsteps outside the door. He grinned when he heard the humming. It had to be Squeaky—the song was one that had been popular in the Jewel Cities nearly a decade ago. From Squeaky, it meant she was relaxed, or even happy.

She proved her good mood as she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. He folded his big hands over her smaller ones.

"What's made you so happy this morning?" he asked.

He could feel her smile. "I've been working with some of the _hertasi_," she replied. "They like the masks, so I was showing them the design."

"Setting new fashions among the Kalad'a'in?"

She giggled. "Well, maybe not to wear," she said. "I think they see them as art as much as anything else. Although given some of the _clothes_ these people wear…I can't even imagine what their festival garb must look like." She paused, and then blurted out, "But that's not the best part!"

He turned in her arms so that her head was against his chest, and pulled her closer. "What's the best part?" he asked obligingly.

"I think I've solved our provisioning problem!"

Knuckles raised an eyebrow and pulled back a little to look her in the face. Figuring out how to get enough silver to outfit the six of them even for a few weeks had indeed been a problem. The war chests—all of the Company's wealth—had been left behind, along with everything except what they'd been wearing or carrying. The silver in their money belts simply hadn't been enough to outfit them all for the journeys ahead, and Knuckles had been wracking his brains trying to figure out how to manage it.

It was times like this, he really missed Sly. That little thief had been an expert scrounger, which in turn made her the best damned Quartermaster a commander could want. He turned wandering attention back to Squeaky. "How?" he asked.

She was so excited, she actually bounced on her toes. "One of the other Kalad'a'in said my masks might make good trade goods, and showed them to a trader who came through today! He bought all I had, and said he'd come back for more! He also said he'd send somebody to look at Maul's weapons."

Knuckles whooped and caught his standard bearer up in a hug, spinning her around once as she laughed breathlessly. He had to put her down rather quickly, though.

"Damn!" he said. "You're gaining weight faster than I can get back into condition." She pulled a face, but before she could say anything, he hushed her with a light touch of his lips on hers.

"That's a good thing," he assured her. And it was. Toward the end of Ram Singh's campaign, none of them had been in good shape. Knuckles clearly remembered how thin and hollow-eyed Squeaky had been. Now her collarbone no longer protruded, her face had lost its pinched look, and her eyes were clear and bright.

"Well," she replied, "everyone else is still down at the obstacle course." Her grin was slightly wicked. "Wanna go find out just how out of shape you are?"

"You're a sadist, woman!" Knuckles groaned.

Her grin was definitely wicked. "I learned from the best."

* * *

The obstacle course was a Kalad'a'in invention that Knuckles had determined to take full advantage of. Set some ways away from the main Vale, beyond the magical "curtain" that kept out most of the weather and maintained its summer temperature in all seasons, the course was a series of tests and obstacles that was used mainly by the Silver Griffons, to train themselves for various situations. However, all residents of the Vale were welcome to make use of it, and Knuckles had immediately seen its value in returning his company to fighting condition.

Some of the challenges were meant for single scouts or fighters to navigate on their own. Others were designed to be approached in teams, to teach cooperative maneuvers. Nor were the hazards completely illusory, or strictly physical. Journeyman mages frequently honed their battlefield skills by enhancing the course with magic traps, or by actually playing the role of "enemy mage." And while none of the challenges were actually deadly, it was more than possible to be hurt if one bungled, as all of them had found out at least once. Knuckles was already discussing with Topper ways of incorporating a similar arrangement into the Tears, once they were a real company again.

Today they found One and Shestryl waiting their turn. The griffon's small ear tufts were angled forward alertly as she and One watched Maul and No jump, run, and tumble their way past a volley of arrows to rescue the prisoner—a Kalad'a'in scout who'd sustained a broken ankle a few days before. She couldn't walk, and certainly wasn't fit for duty, but it made her an ideal "prisoner" for this situation, as the idea was to get her out alive.

As Knuckles and Squeaky joined the observers, Maul—now garbed in a _hertasi_-made cloak that camouflaged him beautifully—crept along the forest floor, while No made a more obvious target of himself, running straight for the post where the scout was tied. The arrows started—and Maul wriggled his fingers and said something that caused all of them to burst into splinters before any of them could reach the little yellow man. No stopped some three yards short of the post and said a few words in his native Nyueng Bao; Maul shed his cover and sprinted to catch up.

("Why did they stop short?")

("Don't know. Maybe they see something?")

Sure enough, Maul scooped up a rock and tossed it into the seemingly empty space between him and the prisoner. It fell through the ground; a clever illusion.

Then Maul threw another rock. This one landed only a yard or so from where the scout was tied—and the ground erupted in a small explosion that threw a spray of dirt and gravel into the air, forcing the prisoner to duck her head awkwardly. Further experimentation proved that the only "safe" ground was immediately around the post.

("This oughta be good," muttered Knuckles.)

Maul and No looked at each other. Maul's expression couldn't be seen behind his mask, but No grinned maniacally and sheathed his blade, sliding it easily into his back scabbard, and backed up a yard or so. He ran sprinted forward, gathered his muscles, and leaped—

And Maul's hands added to No's momentum, hurling him across the danger zone, as the observers held their breath.

A collective sigh was released as No landed neatly next to the post, grabbing it to steady himself as he rocked on the balls of his feet. Quickly he released the scout and assessed her condition with a few prods and a rapid flood of Nyueng Bao.

Then No pulled a coil of tough twine from his pockets. Without leaving the "safe" zone, he scavenged sticks and brush, piling them together and then rapidly assembling a strange sort of framework, over which he stretched his cloak. He handed this to the scout, showing her how to huddle beneath its meager protection.

("Hot damn! He's made a shield!")

No turned to Maul and gave a piercing whistle. A coil of rope appeared in Maul's hands. He whirled the free end around his head, and then tossed it No, who caught it without allowing the end to touch the ground. As Maul took up the slack, No unslung his pack and tied it to the end of the rope, then gave Maul another signal. Maul backed up, slowly, as No held the rope and pack up off of the ground. When he was a good distance away, No crouched carefully, still holding the pack up high, and edged under the makeshift shield. Maul nodded; No dropped the pack and got himself under cover as Maul began hauling the pack swiftly along the ground.

Fire spurted up from the ground as explosions popped and roared, raining dirt and debris and small flames onto the scout and her rescuer. But the shield held, and as the pack fell into the concealed pit, thus defining its limits, No looped an arm around the scout's shoulders and helped her limp slowly along the wake of the sprung traps. As he and Maul escorted the "prisoner" into "home" territory, a rousing cheer broke from the watchers.

* * *

The hot springs were rapidly becoming a favorite place to confer after training; the steaming water eased sore muscles as it carried away sweat and grime. The near-invisible _hertasi_ left plenty of towels and soap nearby, and could often be coaxed into adding a mug of ale or light wine as well. Knuckles settled into the hotter soaking pool after he was clean with a sigh. He had carefully set the privacy marker to "blue" after the company had assembled, and no-one would bother them now. He had learned about the markers after Topper had mistakenly entered a spring marked "red", and had returned with an ear-to-ear grin and a story worth a week of blushes from Squeaky. The Kalad'a'in claimed not to be as shameless as their cousins the Tayledras, but they had far looser notions of privacy than any other people the company had ever encountered. Physically, anyway. But they did not pry, did not ask awkward questions except where it was necessary. In that sense, they were very like the old Company had been.

No was already sitting up to his chin in hot water; next to him, One looked even bigger than usual. Maul was opposite Knuckles, leaning back against the comfortably curved edge of the pool with his eyes closed, trying to ignore Topper, who was boasting about his performance on the course that day. Squeaky had already had her soak, and was lounging at the side of the pool as a _hertasi_ kneaded the muscles in her back and legs, working out the last of the kinks with wooden rollers and lightly scented oils.

"All right," Knuckles said, and immediately felt the company's attention, though their positions changed not a hair. "It's decision time. In a couple more weeks, we'll have supplies, and we'll be as close to fighting trim as we're gonna get without actually fighting. We need to talk about where we want to head, to build our name. Anyone want to go first?"

One stretched his arms above his head and slid a bit further into the water. "I have been speaking much with Shestryl," he said in his deep bass voice. "In the north, on the other side of the mountains, there are barbarian tribes. They have little contact with the southern peoples, except through a place called Sanctuary. I think there I can find warriors, strong men to fill our ranks."

Knuckles nodded. "All right, then," he said. "Maul, how about you and No? What are you planning on doing?"

Maul sat up and ran his hands through his wet hair. "I think we'll head for more civilized countries," he said. "If we head north and east, we'll hit a group of independent kingdoms on the edge of an empire. Rumor has it that the Empire's been testing the borders lately; I think there's opportunity to be had there."

No cackled with glee. "In the business of selling information to those who wish to preserve their borders, or perhaps another company to join. If nothing else, there are the cards."

Knuckles shook his head. Neither No nor Maul were above taking all but the pants off of a mark at the tonk tables. "Be careful with that," he warned. "Don't forget, there's people here who can pull the thoughts right out of your brain, and we don't know that all of them will be as nice about it as the Kalad'a'in have been."

"Anyway, that brings up something else," he continued. "Turns out there's an actual Mercenaries Guild, and before we go anywhere, we're all going to become members." He held up his hand to forestall any questions. "Frostfire explained why it's a good idea. First of all, the kind of jobs we're going to want to take simply won't be available to anyone who's not a member. Everyone knows you can trust a Guild merc; anyone who hires anything else is either too poor or too stupid to hire anything else, or has something going that _we_ likely do not want to be a part of." He waited, watching his men's expressions until he saw they understood. "Now, when we become a Company again, we're going to be a bonded Company, not a bunch of free-lancers. There's a code of conduct that both mercs _and employers_ are expected to follow. Any merc who doesn't has damages taken out of their fee, and then their hide. Any employer who doesn't not only pays a hefty fine but then can't hire bonded companies for at least a year, if not longer…which often means that they won't be able to hire free-lancers, either, once word gets out."

There were some slow nods as the men absorbed his words.

"That would've stopped that whole mess with the Lady," Maul observed.

"What's this code, though?" Topper asked.

"It's pretty simple," Knuckles said. "Basically, both parties follow the letter of the contract, there's no looting or pillaging on your employer's land, and none in enemy territory without your employer's permission."

"If a Guild company or one of its members surrenders—" He held up his hand again to cut off the scoffs and jeers at the possibility—"then said party is allowed to report to a neutral point to be ransomed by the Guild. That's another reason for the rather hefty fee."

"A bonded Company won't switch sides mid-contract, won't participate in a mutiny against their employer, and isn't required or expected to fight a suicide cause—though they _are_ expected to try and get their employer out of a bad situation in one piece." Knuckles shrugged and relaxed again. "That's pretty much it. To my way of thinking, it's worth the cost."

There was silence as the rest mulled this over. Finally Squeaky stirred. "That's…pretty much what we were doing anyway," she said slowly. "I mean, we've used plenty of dirty tricks—but we've never pulled them on our employer. It's always been the other way around." There were grim nods from those who remembered the perfidy of the Lady's lieutenants. "It seems weird, though—rules for mercs, I mean. We might almost as well join the army."

Knuckles shook his head. "Every merc ever born is a misfit," he said, "and that's just as true here as it was back—" He was going to say, "home," but thought better of it. "Back where we came from. This is just the mercenaries' way of looking out for each other, to try and put a stop to the kind of crap that sent us south in the first place. Doesn't always work, of course—you've still got rulers who'd use us as cannon fodder, and captains dumb enough to let 'em, and it never hurts to know whether or not the guy you're fighting against has a habit of killing those who try to surrender instead of ransoming them. The bottom line for me though is this: I know we're the best damned Company ever formed. We proved it to one world, and I intend to prove it to another. But we won't even get a chance, if we don't join the Guild."

The cheers from the company were quite gratifying.

Maul asked, "And where are _you_ planning on going, Captain?"

"A trade city called Kata'shin'a'in. The wizard who died in the accident that brought us here had his teacher with him. She survived, but she's not Kalad'a'in. She one of their cousin people, the Shin'a'in, and they trade in Kata'shin'a'in. She's asked for an escort as far as that, and frankly, I can't see any reason to deny her. We owe her that much, I think, and I also think Squeak and I have a good chance of picking up a job there before the season ends. Caravan guards, maybe—not glamorous, but it's exactly the kind of thing we're suited for."

There were nods all around, and it was Topper who voiced what they were all thinking. "Sounds like a plan, Captain. This place is nice—but I'm looking forward to some action."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Yes, the Industrial Revolution is slowly seeping over Velgarth. Hopefully they'll be wiser than we were about it._ _As usual, I own nothing but a couple of the characters. Thanks to Mercedes Lackey for the setting, and to Dave for Knuckles._

Squeaky touched the tags that hung around her neck. "It still seems strange to be wearing these," she said as she saddled the horse that the Kalad'a'in had loaned her. They had hinted that there were other methods of transportation—but Vir'hada was Shin'a'in, and Shin'a'in rode horseback. Hence, her escort would be mounted as well.

Squeaky didn't mind that at all. Her faithful mare Dancer had fallen on the Plain of Glittering Stone, and Squeaky still mourned her loss. But this beast, while not of Dancer's quality, was no old hobbyhorse either, and stood patiently under Squeaky's hands. She would be left at Kata'shin'a'in, until someone headed for the Vale took her back.

Knuckles spared Squeaky a glance as he wrestled with the girth on his saddle. "I know what you mean," he replied, then cursed and thumped his recalcitrant beast between the eyes before it could take a bite out of him. The gelding squealed and stomped, prompting another flood of curses from Knuckles as he attempted to get the beast back under control. Squeaky tried to control her giggles and quickly finished saddling her mare, before walking quickly over to Knuckles and grabbing the reins from him.

"Move over," she told him. "Let me calm him down."

Knuckles, whose biggest strength as a captain was knowing when to let the experts deal with a problem, moved aside gratefully. The gelding tried to snap; Squeaky avoided his teeth and grabbed the reins right under his chin. "None of that," she said firmly, pulling his head down to look him directly in the eye. He tried to kick again; again Squeaky dodged, and this time she grabbed his hoof while it was off of the ground and held it. It is a humbling experience for a horse to immobilized that way; after a moment, the gelding snorted and lowered his head. Squeaky put down his hoof and went to his head again. This time, though, she scratched him around his bridle and under his mane, whispering soft words to him until he was rubbing nose against her chest and whuffing into her hair. She giggled, and motioned Knuckles to come forward slowly.

"Think of him as a new recruit," Squeaky said. "He's testing you, figuring out just what he can get away with. Now he knows what the limits are. Let him get your scent, and he'll go all right for you now."

Knuckles held out his hand. The gelding sniffed, snorted, and seemed satisfied, standing still now as Knuckles mounted.

"You know horses."

Squeaky swiveled to face the new voice. She saw a woman standing tall and erect despite the deep lines in her face and her braid of iron-gray hair. Her clothes, while just as bright as the Kalad'a'in's, were of a distinctly different cut—a long wrapped jacket over a vest and fringed tunic, soft boots and trousers with more of that long bright fringe. The whole costume was in varying shades of blue, and had a certain barbaric elegance that was different from the more sophisticated Kalad'a'in.

"Thank you." Squeaky acknowledged the compliment, but her eyes were already fastened on the horse led by the woman. Dancer had been a fine mare, of impeccable breeding, but the chestnut she saw now was the epitome of everything a horse should be. Long graceful limbs, a broad forehead with large intelligent eyes, a mane and tail that flowed like water…Knuckles had to turn away to hide his laughter at the look of naked lust on Squeaky's face.

The old woman did not laugh, though her lips twitched with amusement. "Yes, you know horses," she repeated, "and now you know why we Shin'a'in are renowned for the beasts we breed."

Squeaky approached the pair slowly, and held her hand out to the mare. "May I?" she entreated.

Now Vir'hada smiled in spite of herself, and addressed the mare. "_Kathal_, Felara," she murmured. "Go gently."

Felara whickered softly and sniffed Squeaky's outstretched palm, then submitted to a quick examination by the scout. "Oh," Squeaky finally sighed as she moved back. "She's _beautiful_! I've never seen anything like her."

The shaman sighed. She had plenty of reason to dislike these outlanders—or at least their presence—but found herself won over by the girl's open admiration of her people's pride and joy. "I am Vir'hada, shaman to the Children of the Cat," she said formally. "And what is your name, little lover-of-horses?"

The scout bobbed her head politely. "They call me Squeaky."

Vir'hada raised an eyebrow at this, then nodded to Knuckles. "Captain," she acknowledged. "I see your bags are packed."

Knuckles nodded. "I'm sure you're eager to get home," he said.

"Ah, that I am. And so—" The old woman mounted smoothly and easily. "Let us be off."

* * *

They crested the ridge and looked down into the valley that held Kata'shin'a'in. Squeaky blinked—she had some of the longest sight in the company, but still the city seemed…strange. Like a lot of colorful peaked cloth hats standing point-up on the ground. Then they got a little closer, and she realized…

"They're tents!"

Vir'hada smiled. "Kata'shin'a'in is a trade city," she said. "So when the season for such things is over, it has no reason to exist. There are a few permanent buildings, but mostly—" she waved her hand to illustrate, "it blows away like a leaf on the autumn wind."

The road they were on was a typical road of hard-packed earth and gravel. But as they approached the city, the track was crossed with a road of carefully laid cobblestones. Two parallel tracks of iron or steel, about an arm's length apart, ran down the center of the road, as far as the eye could see in either direction. Squeaky frowned at it, sorely puzzled.

"What is that for?" she asked.

Vir'hada shook her head. "Some contrivance of the civilized lands," she said. "I know that it uses captive fire elementals to make steam, but I admit I do not understand how the steam makes the thing move. It can go as fast or faster than a horse, and needs no rest, but it must have a constant supply of water, and its wheels can only go on the tracks laid for it."

Both Knuckles and Squeaky regarded the old shaman with looks of absolute incomprehension. She laughed at their expressions, and shook her head. "Ah, well, I am certain you shall see one of them at least while you are here. And surely there will be one of the artificers who can explain how such things work, if you truly desire to know."

"That sounds like something Topper would love to take apart," Squeaky observed.

"His path to the north takes him through the borders of Valdemar, where these "steam engines" originated," Vir'hada said. "He may very well find an artificer there who will let him."

They rode a little longer in silence. Squeaky kept her mare close to Vir'hada's, and the shaman sensed that there was something more she wanted to say. Finally, the girl screwed up her courage and asked, "Vir'hada—what's a lifebond?"

"That's—a difficult question," Vir'hada replied cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"It was something Nightsong said, when we were at the Vale," Squeaky revealed. "She-she said she thought me and Knuckles were 'lifebonded', but she'd never seen it happen between two ungifted people, so she wasn't sure. And I think she didn't like being uncertain about it, so I didn't ask any more. But I want to know what she meant."

Vir'hada thought for several moments before replying. "Many sages have pondered for centuries about lifebonds—what they are, and what they mean," she said finally. "It is a tie between two people, or perhaps it is more accurate to think of it as one person who happens to wear two bodies. A lifebond, unrecognized, can be a thing of agony. Recognized and accommodated, it is strong and enduring, a source of strength and comfort to both. But there are as many tragic tales about lifebonding as there are romantic."

"But Knuckles and I—we don't have any of these 'gifts' Nightsong was talking about," Squeaky said. "Does that mean we aren't lifebonded, or that we can't be?"

"I do not know," Vir'hada confessed. "We have never noted a lifebond between the ungifted—but perhaps that is because those who study such things are usually Gifted themselves. A lifebond can often have a powerful effect on how Gifts work—perhaps the effect of a lifebond on others is simply so subtle it has never been noticed. Or perhaps you and your shieldmate have latent or potential gifts that have not manifested."

"Oh." Squeaky mulled this over for a while as the noises and scents of Kata'shin'a'in began to grow gradually stronger. As they approached the checkpoint, Squeaky asked, "What's a 'shieldmate'?"

"Now that I can answer," replied Vir'hada cheerfully. "Your fighting partner is your shieldmate if you are sharing blankets, your shieldbrother or shieldsister if you're not."

"Oh," Squeaky said again, and blushed crimson. "Was it that obvious?" she asked in a near whisper.

Trailing behind the two women, close enough to hear every word of the conversation, Knuckles chuckled quietly to himself.

* * *

Master Aiden Cade eyed his new-hired guards with a mixture of cautious optimism and extreme apprehension. He was an experienced caravan master, and knew what to look for when hiring guards. Under normal circumstances, anyway. But circumstances had not been "normal" for quite some time now, and he had been forced to take some chances in the hopes of saving his livelihood.

All of his new guards were competent, no question about that. All of them had a certain stolidness and strength of character. And all of them, with two exceptions, had come with the highest recommendations.

It was the two exceptions that caused his nervousness, and watching them, he wondered yet again if he hadn't made a mistake hiring the two foreign mercenaries.

Foreign they were, no doubt of that. Master Cade prided himself on knowing at least a smattering of every civilized tongue from the Pelagirs to the Eastern Shore, but it was certain he'd never heard the language spoken between the big brute with the scarred face and his slim partner.

They both had Guild tags, and the easy economy of movement that marked many career mercenaries—but whoever heard of a merc who fought with his fists? The man wore a sword, it was true, but Cade had yet to see him draw it. His primary weapons were the leather and metal gauntlets that covered his calloused hands and arms right up to the elbow. The extra weight lent even more power to his formidable punches, and the gauntlets allowed him to deflect his opponents' weapons long enough to get close enough to hit them.

His partner was a _bit_ more conventional…she wore the light leather armor of a scout and skirmisher, but her weapon was not the typical crossbow or short horse-bow, but a longbow nearly as tall as herself. Master Cade had already seen her on the target fields with it, and knew she was a dead-eye shot. The fact that she could stick on her horse's back like a burr at the same time was doubly impressive.

They were strange, yes. But then, "normal" guards had lost him three caravans so far. Perhaps something different was in order.

"Master Cade is watching us again," Squeaky said as she sopped up the last of her bean broth with her journey bread.

Knuckles grinned and swallowed the last of his own dinner, washing it down with a deep drink from his canteen. "Probably wondering when we're gonna start raping the horses, wrecking the wagons, and sacrificing the other guards to Kina."

Squeaky giggled. "Probably," she agreed. "But from what I've heard, he's getting desperate enough to take a chance on a pair of strangers who might have some new tricks."

"Yeah?" Knuckles regarded his partner more soberly. "What have you heard?"

"That he's lost three caravans so far, and all the same way. They get out to a certain point—not the exact same spot, but the same general area, out in the middle of nowhere. Something frightens the horses, panics them actually, so that they break their traces and run away. People, too—the ones who aren't carried away by their beasts run off by themselves. Some of them have died—it's very harsh country. And the ones who've been recovered can't say what frightened them—only that they were so terrified all they could think of was running away. Anyway, by the time they recover their wits, the wagons have been looted, and I guess whoever it is has enough trail-craft to cover his tracks."

"Hmm." Knuckles drummed his fingers on his knee. "Mind-magic, maybe?"

The scout shrugged. "I suppose it could be. On the other hand, Ram Singh had wizards who could do the same thing, remember? And Maul says that was true magic, so maybe they can do the same thing here." Her face flushed as she remembered her first encounter with that particular spell. "If it is the same thing, I-I can understand why they ran. I literally don't remember anything between seeing that shadow and coming to with Topper watching over me."

"Yeah, but you did just fine the next time," Knuckles pointed out.

She avoided his eyes, picking at an invisible spot on the knee of her trousers. "Are you kidding? I was so scared I wet myself."

"Squeak." Knuckles voice was firm, and Squeaky looked up reluctantly. "I think we _all_ wet ourselves. _You_ were the one who got a shot off and winged the bastard. Nobody else even managed that much."

Squeaky took a deep breath. "Well, yes," she acknowledged. "I did it once—maybe I can do it again."

"No maybes. I _know_ you can."

The road was rocky, the surrounding country high and rather scrubby. There were small clumps of stunted trees here and there, sheltered from the constant winds by outcroppings of the granite that formed the cliffs on either side. The main source of fuel was the leavings from previous caravans. Game was small—the occasional swift hare or rock pigeon, though Squeaky caught glimpses of wild goats further up on the crags.

Squeaky loved it. She was scouting out ahead of the lead wagon, surveying each rock and shrub. She was wary—this was just past the point where the last caravan had been lost, and very near to where the first had been looted—but she enjoyed the solitude of such scouting duties. Here, there were no awkward attempts at conversation, no stares from the merchants or other guards. The goats did not expect anything of her. And since such scouting forays really required only a small part of her attention, she was free to think her own thoughts. Here, she was free simply to be.

A glimpse of movement high on the cliff wall caught her eye; immediately she froze and tried to determine what had caught her eye. Most likely, it was just another goat—but lives and livelihoods had been lost by making such assumptions. Squeaky dropped back behind a rock on the opposite side and slowly drew an arrow from the quiver strapped to her back.

There it was again—and this time she saw the gleam of metal as well. Squeaky tracked the sporadic movement down the cliff and back towards where the caravan was approaching. Her lips firmed as she slipped out of her hiding place to follow, hoping for a clear shot. But whoever it was, managed either by chance or design to keep the trees and rocks between himself and his shadow.

Then she heard the hooves of the horses and the jingle of the traces ahead and realized that the caravan was just around the bend. She nocked her arrow and drew the string, figuring that even a miss might scare him away or force him to expose himself—and then she was hit with a wave of sickening fear that drove her to her knees to huddle in the dust as terror made her stomach churn and urged her legs to carry her far, far away from this place.

Knuckles was not quite so lucky. The overwhelming terror struck him and his mount at the same time, and the beast reared and screamed before whirling and fleeing. Knuckles found himself sliding off of the animal's back, and fear disappeared as his head connected with the hard-packed earth, sending him into oblivion.

Squeaky was locked in her own internal struggle and was only peripherally aware of the chaos ahead as oxen burst their traces and horses bucked their riders and scattered to and fro. There were the screams of men, too, both merchants and hardened mercenaries, as they fled the pervasive, source-less, but all-consuming fear. Anonymous feet raced past her as she dug her fingers into the dirt of the road, trying to ignore the greater part of her that screamed, _Run! Run away!_ and focus instead on the smaller, more determined part of her that said simply, _No_.

Her hands closed about the bow she had dropped. The touch was like an old friend. There was nothing magical about it whatsoever, but it was hers, had been made just for her, and contact with the warm wood and horn steadied her enough that she could look up through watering eyes.

As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Squeaky fell over again, as if she had been braced against a wall that had been abruptly removed. But she quickly scrambled to her feet, her eyes sweeping over the small scatter of bodies that had been rendered unconscious—she hoped they were only unconscious, that no one had been killed in the panic—and focusing on the man who slid the last few feet down the rock face.

He was rather undersized and weedy looking, wearing clothes that seemed ill-fitting and far too rich for this middle-of-nowhere place. Even from here, twenty yards away, she could see the satisfaction on his face as he walked over to the nearest body and kicked it experimentally.

Squeaky's arrow flew without conscious thought. But her hands were shaking and it missed, ricocheting off of the wagon just to his left. He whirled to face her; his eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed—and this time Squeaky took the full brunt of his mental attack.

Knuckles groaned as he opened his eyes, and regained his wits in time to see Squeaky give a little mewling cry and fall to her knees as if driven by a blow. But her eyes blazed with something like hate as she struggled to nock an arrow, and Knuckles found himself on his feet when he glimpsed the knife that appeared in her opponent's hand. Step by step the villain closed the distance between him and Squeaky, wary of her, but evidently intent on delivering a coup de grace while she was engaged in her mental struggle.

_I don't think so_, Knuckles thought grimly. His own head still rang—he'd had enough concussions to recognize the symptoms now—but he shook it off and crept up behind the skinny fellow, who was so occupied with Squeaky that he never noticed the fist aimed at the back of his skull.

He missed, just a little. Rather than connecting with the back of the skull, Knuckles' fist crunched into the neck, right where it joined the head. Vertebrae shattered under the impact, driving shards of bone into the spinal cord. The man dropped to the ground and rolled slightly, looking up at Knuckles with a look of dumb surprise on his face. He was still breathing, but Knuckles had a feeling that wouldn't last long. Likely he was paralyzed; when the paralysis reached his lungs, he would die. Knuckles shook off another moment of dizziness, and turned to check on Squeaky.

Except that he couldn't. His victim's eyes held him, and the expression in them had gone from surprise to sheer fear. Fear of death, fear of dying; and Knuckles could almost hear his screams as he struggled frantically to escape his fate.

Then, as Knuckles struggled to pull himself away from the dying man, he felt something pulling at him, sinking cold sharp talons into his brain. He grabbed his own head, but the pain was inside his skull, where he could feel the other man's determination to live—at any cost. It seemed as if a vortex opened up before him, a swirling emptiness, and he found himself pulled loose from his familiar moorings and cast into that maelstrom, which swirled around him, drawing him under…

And then he was looking up at his own face. Instinctively, he tried to reach out, to grapple with the doppelganger—but his limbs would not respond. Only a sort of cold heaviness met his efforts, and it was getting hard to breath. As Knuckles realized what had happened, the scarred face above him jerked away with a curse—and Knuckles watched helplessly as his body—_his_ body, the one he'd been born with—stumbled away.

A moment later, Squeaky was bent over him, examining the dying envelope he'd been shoved into. "Good riddance," she muttered, and stood up again to leave.

_She doesn't know_, he realized. _She doesn't know I'm in here, and she'll think that—that __**thing**__ is me!_ But he couldn't move, could barely breath. How could tell her?

"Tara!" he gasped.

Squeaky had already taken a step, ready to find her partner, when she heard her old name burst from the dying man's lips. She felt the blood drain from her face, and whirled to face him again.

"What did you say?" she demanded in the local trade-tongue.

"Tara," he repeated. "It's me. I'm not him. I'm…Knuckles."

He spoke the Opal dialect, Squeaky's native language and not one known in this world. Squeaky felt her knees waver, but she was still wary of a trick. "Prove it," she said in Rosean.

"You…joined the Black Company seven years ago," he said in the same language. His words were slow as he fought for every breath. "One-Eye…and Goblin…called you Squeaky…after they…interrupted your bath."

Squeaky's hands fluttered up to cover her mouth. "When did we start sharing blankets?" she asked quickly.

"Three…years ago…"

"And who was I sleeping with before that?"

He managed a wan smile. "Trick question…Squeak. Only…me."

Tears filled her eyes. "Oh, gods, what happened?"

"Not sure…" His vision was dimming, like a veil was being drawn over his eyes.

"Knuckles…" She knelt and cupped his face in her hands. "Knuckles, we have to fix this. This body—it's dying. _You'll_ die, if we don't…"

"I…know." He could scarcely see her now. "Raise…standard. One is…captain. You…second now…"

"No!" He had never heard such grief in her voice before. "No, don't you _dare_ die now." Scalding tears dripped from her eyes unheeded onto his face. "You stay with me, do you hear? With ME!"

Desire alone is not enough to keep breath within a dying body. The shallow breaths ceased. But grief and love can sometimes have unexpected consequences, especially when coupled with something as strong and unpredictable as a lifebond.

As death loosed the ties between body and self, Knuckles was again aware of that swirling maelstrom that waited for him. But before it could swallow him, he felt the touch of something else, a presence strong and warm and familiar. He seized hold of it gratefully, and suddenly was assaulted by images and impressions, alien in perspective and so numerous that his mind, all there was left of him, shut down in sudden confusion.

Squeaky gasped and pressed the heels of her hands against her temples as her brain seemed to swell, pressing against the inside of her skull. She tried to stand, staggered, and dropped unconscious next to the dead man in the road.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been waiting for an update, for your patience and encouragement. I had fun with this chapter, speculating on what might have happened up North since the end of Owlknight. I apologize if I have messed up the geography--it's not my strong point even in this world. My excuse is that a hundred and fifty years is plenty of time for traditional hunting grounds to have changed. As usual, I own none of the setting, Ms. Lackey does. One is Daniel's character, and Topper is Joe's. Any other characters, except for mentions of Ms. Lackey's, can be assumed to be mine._

One faced the most implacable challenge of his life. It was a challenge which could not be argued or reasoned with, could not be killed or defeated. It could be easily avoided; however, avoiding it would mean turning away from his goal, and that was unacceptable to One. The challenge could only be overcome, one step at a time.

"The worrsst iss nearrly over," Shestryl trilled. "Thiss iss the highest we shall go. Afterr thiss, we go back down."

One barely heard the griffon's assurances. He was too busy battling the nausea that nearly doubled him over. Worse yet was the constant weakness that pulled at his muscles, and the vertigo that kept him as close as possible to the side of the mountain itself lest he tumble from the edge to an ignominious death. He struggled for every breath, his lungs burning in the thin mountain air.

"Mountain sickness," Topper called it. He was faring somewhat better than One; after all, his home city was ringed by cliffs and crags. But they were not so high as the giants they traveled through now, with their year-round caps of snow, and anyway Topper had spent most of his life in that city in its catacombs as a tomb guard. Topper, too, was weak and short of breath, and though he did not complain of nausea his face and hands had swelled alarmingly. He could scarcely pull on his gloves, and his eyes had sunk so deeply in his puffy cheeks they could hardly be seen. There was no cure or palliative, though both guide and Healer had assured him that a man _could_ get used to the thin air, if he spent enough time in the heights. One had no desire to spend that much time in the mountains. They must simply push on.

Shestryl, of course, had no problems. She regularly flew much higher than this. One actually envied her.

* * *

It had taken several weeks of travel to get to the town of Errold's Grove, in the north of the country called Valdemar. This, Shestryl had assured him, was the best place from which to cross the mountains.

"Therre iss a hisstorry of peace between the norrthern trribes and the place called Ssanctuarry," she explained. "Ssanctuarry iss a place of healing forr the barrbarrians, thosse who have no healerss of theirr own. In rreturn, theirr trrade goodss pass thrrough Ssanctuary, and thuss thrrough Errold'ss Grove, making the Valdemarranss wealthierr by farr than they would be otherrwisse. Therre iss alsso," she said almost as an afterthought, "a Taleydrass vale nearrby."

"What's the difference between a Taleydras Vale and a Kalad'a'in Vale?" Topper asked.

Shestryl had ruffled her feathers in a surprisingly human shrug. "Not much," she said. "We learrned how to build Valess from the Taleydrass, though theirr population tended mostly toward the humanss, theirr birdss, and the _herrtasssi_. But therre hass been a grreat deal of crossoverr and interrmarriage ssince the Kalad'a'in came norrth, and now it iss often difficult to tell."

"What of this 'Sanctuary'?" One asked. "Is it part of the Vale?"

"Actually, no." Shestryl preened her talons for a moment before continuing. "It iss sseparrate frrom both the Vale and the town, deliberrately hidden in the forresst. The _dyheli_ who trravel between the Vale and Ssanctuary know how to get therre, but it iss trraditional to keep the exact location a ssecrret."

One frowned slightly at the griffon. "Why would anyone wish to hide the location of a place of healing?"

Shestryl sighed. "It'ss…complicated, and I don't rreally underrsstand it all mysself. But I'm ssure there will be ssomeone who knowss at Errold'ss Grove, if you wissh to assk." And with that, One had to be content.

The road was a wide and cobbled, and very well maintained. The travelers had passed many wagons and riding beasts going both directions, but still they were somewhat surprised with the size of the town when they arrived. There were no walls or palisades, but many trees had been allowed to grow up and in between the houses, though the streets were kept clear. Neat gardens abounded; children, dogs, and chickens ran here and there, weaving blithely in and out of the traffic. 

Shestryl was flying above them as they entered; Topper and One heard her trill a greeting, and looked up to see her circling with another griffon. A moment later, the strange griffon flew away, and a few minutes after that, One and Topper saw a white-clad man on a matching white horse riding up to meet them. The horses hooves had a peculiar ring upon the pavement, almost like bells.

The man in white dismounted as soon as he was in hailing distance, and met them on foot—a courtesy One appreciated. He had an open, friendly face with frank brown eyes, a neat brown beard, and his look was evaluating, but not hostile.

"Welcome!" he said in excellent Kalad'a'in. "I'm Herald Voden. Keeli tells me you're needing guidance to Sanctuary."

Apparently news traveled fast. Shestryl landed beside them with a flourish. "My friends and I seek to travel past the Icewall Mountains!" she exclaimed.

"Havens!" exclaimed Herald Voden. "Whatever for?"

One opened his mouth to respond, but Shestryl beat him to it with typical griffon enthusiasm. "Two thingss, rreally," she replied. "We arre parrt of a mercenary company who have heard of the fierrce warriorrss to the norrth, and wish to ssee if any of them wish to join uss. And my friend One," she indicated One with a flirt of her wing, "iss alsso a missionary of Vancorr, who wishess to tesst hiss faith and theirrss."

"Hmm." Herald Voden seemed to think about that for a moment, with an odd, glazed look in his eyes, as if he were listening to some inner voice. One waited patiently until the Herald turned to him and asked, "Had you made any plans to travel with a guide?"

"We had hoped to hire one," One replied. "If we can find one who can be trusted."

The Herald nodded, and turned to Shestryl again. "Do you travel with a _trond'i'irn_?" he asked, and nodded again when Shestryl shook her head.

"I believe I can help you on both accounts," he said, again addressing One. "If you are willing to take my advice, and providing the individuals I have in mind don't have other commitments. In the meantime—" he turned and indicated the road into town, "Errold's Grove has several places where a weary traveler may find rest. Please, allow me to be your guide."

As they moved off down the road, Topper asked, "Can we trust 'im?"

Shestryl nodded. "You can _always_ trusst a Herrald," she said definitively. 

"How do you know?" he persisted.

Shestryl cocked her head. "Everryone knowss thiss," she said, as if surprised by the question. "The Companionss would neverr choose anyone to be a Herald who wasn't worrthy of trrusst."

Topper was becoming more and more puzzled. "What's a Companion?"

"The beasst with Voden, that lookss like a horrsse," Shestryl said casually. "It iss a sspirrit called a Companion. They choosse the Heraldss from Valdemarr's younglingss."

"Looks awfully solid for a ghost."

Shestryl gurgled with mirth. "They arre _quite_ ssolid," she said. "But the sshamanss claim they arre indeed sspirritss, and they would know. Sso, if you arre within Valdemarr'ss borderrss, and you ssee a perrsson drressed in white, with a white, blue-eyed, ssilverr-hooved horrsse, that perrsson iss a Herrald, and can be trrussted. They can be misstaken, of course, or missinforrmed, but they will neverr deliberately steerr a trravelerr wrrong."

"Does one ever find Heralds elsewhere?" One asked.

"Only if they arre acting as envoyss, orr on ssome otherr mission for the crrown," Shestryl said. "They arre concerrned with Valdemarr itsself, and leave otherr landss alone to do ass they will."

They had been speaking Kalad'a'in as they walked. Herald Voden politely ignored the conversation behind him as he guided them through the winding streets, pointing out the two inns and the tavern. "And if the inns are full, this being the season for travel," he said, "the forest between the town and the Vale is safe enough for camping."

"Thank you, Herald," One said. "Where can we find this guide?"

"Well, if she's not at home, she's usually at the Wayfarer's Respite," Voden replied, indicating the tavern. "She's got a reputation as a bit of a wild one, but no one doubts her skills, and she's the been through the pass more than once—not many can say that. Autumn Firkin is her name."

"And the_trond'i'irn_?" Shestryl asked.

Herald Voden grinned. "Her brother Darius. He's a Collegium-trained Healer, but he's also studied with the _trond'i'irn_ at the Vale. And now, if you will excuse me, I have many other duties I must see to. Good fortune to you all."

One, Topper, and Shestryl all said their goodbyes. Eying the door to the tavern, One noted that it was almost twice as wide as most, big enough for a griffon to enter. And sure enough, when they entered, they saw that half of the enormous room was covered in old worn carpets, where a pair of griffons lounged, eating out of bowls the size of washtubs.

The other half of the room was more conventional, with a fireplace (cold, at this time of year) and several tables. The serving staff was plentiful, but they were all very busy, as the Wayfarer's Respite was nearly full. A man dressed in scarlet strummed a lute in the corner nearest the fireplace, but seemed to have given up on making himself heard over the hum of voices and the dull clank of pottery on the worn but clean tables.

A matronly woman hurried up to them and said something in what One presumed to be Valdemaran. 

"We are looking for Autumn Firkin," One said in Kalad'a'in.

She may not have understood the language, but she recognized the name. Her eyebrows went up, and then she pointed to a long table near the bar, where several young men and women sat. Theirs were the loudest voices in the tavern, and the center of attention was a woman with flaming red hair, too bright for auburn and too fiery for chestnut. It curled wildly around a face that reminded One of a fox—sharp and clever. As One watched, she concluded the story she was telling, and her companions responded with raucous laughter as she took a long pull from her mug.

She looked up then, and her eyes fell on him. She put her mug down on the table and regarded him with something like a challenge in her eyes. One returned her gaze steadily. After a long moment, she grinned broadly and waved the group over to her table. 

Shestryl excused herself. "I want to talk to Keeli and hiss frriend," she said. "And the table iss too ssmall—I don't want my wingss sstepped on." She bounced to where the other two griffons were watching her with undisguised curiosity as One and Topper joined Autumn Firkin.

The girl in question shooed her companions away with laughter and words that One interpreted as something like "I have business to take care of now; I'll talk to you later." They left reluctantly, but with a speed that made it clear to One who was the leader of the flock. She then said something to One and Topper as they sat down, placing their packs carefully by their feet.

"Please speak Kalad'a'in, if you know it," One requested.

"I speak it," she replied with a surprised lift of her eyebrows. "I admit, I'm kind of surprised that _you_ do."

This was so obviously an attempt at baiting that One felt no need to respond directly. "We need a guide over the mountains," he said instead, as Topper used his limited knowledge of Valdemaran to order drinks. "Someone who knows the northern tribes."

"Well, you've found the right girl," she said, leaning back in her chair and taking another pull from her mug. The server dropped two more mugs in from of Topper and One. One tasted his and found it was a pleasantly bitter ale.

"I don't come cheap, " she said. "But if you pay my fee, and you need a_trond'i'irn_ for your griffon friend, my brother's services are included on the price."

"What is a_trond'i'irn_," One asked, "and why would a griffon need one?"

"They're a sort of Healer," Autumn explained. "One that specializes in the unique problems of griffons. I should point out," she continued with a grin, "that he's perfectly qualified to heal humans, too."

Shestryl had never mentioned needing a special healer, and One was about to refuse. But as he opened his mouth, he got the feeling that he had done this before. It was not exactly an oracle; but sometimes he had dreams that he could never remember—until they happened. They never worried him; they were signs from Vancor. During his long sleep at the Vale, he had dreamed many times, and now he found himself saying, "If we can agree on a fee, we would be happy to have your brother's services as well."

"Excellent. Margit!" she called to the serving woman. "More ale all around, my purse is buying—we've got some serious bargaining ahead of us."

They had hired her, of course. Once the negotiations started, Autumn had dropped all playfulness, and One quickly respected the quick brain that lay behind those smoke-gray eyes. Her fee was steep, consuming nearly all of their remaining coin, but as she had pointed out, they were getting "two-for-one". And that fee covered a great deal more than One had anticipated—two chirras, for instance, the gentle, long-legged, silky-coated beasts that would carry their packs, and a great deal of practical advice about what to pack.

Then she took them to the stable to meet Darius Firkin. He was a quieter version of his sister. His hair curled just as wildly, but was more brown than red, and cut close to his head. His eyes were the same smoky gray, and his face just as pointed, but there was no challenge in his gaze, only a quiet assessment of the two outlanders as he looked up at them from a pile of straw. A nanny goat bleated beside him; he reached up to scratch her head with a strong graceful hand and the animal quieted.

"Mercenaries and missionaries," he mused, after One had explained his purpose yet again. "Unusual." He turned to his sister. "You'll want to take them to Raven first."

She nodded. "Well, not _first_," she amended, "seeing as there's at least three tribes that claim the territory between them and the mountains—but, yeah, I figure we can make it to Raven by midsummer, and then you and I can turn back. If they want to stay longer, one of the cousins can take over."

Topper frowned. "Cousins?" he asked.

Autumn shrugged. "It's a long story, but there are blood ties between the Raven clan and the Firkins. Way back when, a couple of fur traders got trapped up there behind the mountains. They ended up staying, and their kids married into the tribe. But their oldest boy got left behind here in Errold's Grove. He lived with the Hawkbrothers for a while, but eventually married a Healer from the village. Eventually, he went and found his parents and met his other brothers and sisters, but he made his home here. So, us Firkins all have cousins in the Raven clan. One of them will be happy to guide you back here, if you want to stay longer than the season." 

One raised an eyebrow. "For an additional fee?"

Autumn threw back her head and laughed. "If they ask for anything, it won't be in coin," she assured him. "And more likely, they'll do it just for the adventure. Raven is…different. We like to think it's the Firkin influence."

"Different…how?" One persisted. "I need to know."

Autumn frowned thoughtfully, leaning against the stable wall as her brother began to gather his equipment into a leather bag. "Well, I don't know how things are done in your country," she said, "but the barbarians up north have a distinct division between men and women. Men have their own tasks and fires; women have theirs. It's considered unseemly for a woman to ask a man's name, or for him to tell her what it is. If a woman actually wants to be a hunter and fighter, she has to go through a ceremony where the tribe's guardian spirit is consulted. If the spirit agrees, she becomes a man for all intents and purposes—which means she can't marry a man or have children. There's some overlap with their Healers and shamans—a Wisewoman can ask for a man's name when she meets him, instead of having to overhear it. And they make allowances for Southerners."

"Things are a little more egalitarian in Raven. A few women actually become warriors without giving up their right to a husband and kids, and the men's and women's duties aren't so strictly divided." The guide grinned suddenly. "I've heard it said that only the most adventurous men from other tribes seek wives from Raven."

One nodded. He and the Captain cared nothing for the sex of potential warriors—only for their skill. "Do you think that warriors from one tribe will not fight with those of another?" he asked.

Darius answered, shaking his head. "I don't think that would be a problem. They've made alliances before, usually against another tribe that got too aggressive—turning mercenary would just be an extension of that. Besides, things have been too quiet up there for too long. If the young ones don't find something else to do, they'll start turning against each other again. Or they'll try to come through the pass to invade Valdemar."

"Not that _that_ ever works," Autumn chimed in dryly.

"No, it doesn't," Darius agreed. "But that wouldn't stop them from trying. And that still means more work for us Healers."

By now Darius had all of his equipment neatly packed away. He gave the nanny goat a last rub between her horns and accompanied his sister and new employers through the winding streets. There was a shriek overhead, and Shestryl plummeted out of the sky to land beside them. 

"Thiss iss the new guide and Healerr?" she asked. Her nares were flushed with excitement.

"Yes," One answered calmly. "Darius Firkin, and his sister Autumn. This is Shestryl."

Darius stepped forward. "_Zhai'hellava_, sky-lady," he said.

"What language is that?" Topper muttered.

"Taleydras," answered Autumn. "Hawkbrother. Darius speaks it better than I do."

"Wind-to-thy-wingss ass well," Shestryl answered as she accepted a caress from the Healer. Then she turned to One again, and literally danced with excitement. "Do we have all we need now? Can we go? I am rready!"

One threw back his head and laughed long and deep. "There is a bit more to be packed tonight," he answered. "But our guide assures me we can leave at first light." 

* * *

A scarlet flower bloomed beside One's foot. He stared at it for a moment. It seemed to be out of place, and he couldn't quite figure out why.

"Here." A green shadow pressed a white cloth into his hand. "Your nose is bleeding," Darius said. 

Ah. That would be the flower's seed. One pressed the cloth to his face and staggered another step. Beside him, he heard an impatient noise, and then Darius was beside him again, draping one of One's arms about his shoulders to support him.

One pulled away. "I will make my own way."

"Not like that you won't," Darius said bluntly. "I'm a _Healer_, man—I know _exactly_ what you have left, and I know that if you don't put aside that stubborn pride and accept some assistance, you're not going to make it off of this mountain. Now, I could knock you on the head, but you're too heavy for me to drag and the chirras are carrying the baggage, so you're going to have to use your own two feet. But there's _nothing_ wrong with accepting my shoulder as well."

One tried to explain. "I am Vancor's chosen One, I—"

Darius stepped in front of One, and One was surprised at the determination on his face. "You are being a fool," he said quietly. "You may indeed be your god's chosen one, but you are not alone in this world. No one is."

"Did it ever occur to you, in your splendid isolation, that maybe Vancor planned for this sort of thing? I've listened to your sermons, priest, and if you're right, if we are all serving Vancor's plan and purpose, then my purpose right here and right now is to _get you over this mountain_. And to that end, we can do this the hard way, where I render you unconscious—and I'm a Healer, I know how you're put together, I can do it—or you can accept that Vancor might have put me here to aid you, and take what He has given you!"

One stood for a moment, stunned by the realization that the young man was right. Without another word of protest, he allowed the young Healer to move beside him again, and leaned on his shoulders. Not much—his legs still worked after all. But it was enough for both of them.

And then a day later, they followed a switchback trail down, and as their breath eased, One had to take a moment to simply marvel at the sight before him. It looked as if the mountain had been carved and leveled with some unimaginable force. Though the floor of the pass was cracked with age, and small creeping plants and bushes had taken hold, it was patently artificial, and wide enough for four men to walk abreast. The walls were similarly shaped—though One thought he could detect places beneath the growth of centuries where the stone of the walls had been transmuted to glass.

Topper whistled appreciatively. "What happened here?" he asked, awed. "It would take years to cut this."

"Magic, if you believe the stories," Darius answered. "This is supposed to be the pass where Vanyel died, holding back an invading army. The pass was magic-made, by the wizard who led the army. If you believe the bards, Vanyel and his lifemate found this, and Vanyel sent Stefan back to warn the Guard. He died here, but he bought time for the Guard to plant themselves here and stop the army from coming through."

Topper was impressed. "He must have been a hell of a wizard himself."

Darius nodded. "The songs say he was the last of the Herald-Mages for a long time, and the Chronicles agree. I'm Collegium-trained, so I got to look through a lot of the old histories, and they're surprisingly consistent. After he died, there were no mages in Valdemar for oh, several hundred years, until Princess Elspeth left Valdemar for a while and came back a mage. That story's the root of Valdemar's alliance with the Kalad'a'in and the Hawkbrothers, and—"

"And my beloved twin talks to much," Autumn chimed in. Darius just smiled and shrugged, not at all embarrassed. "Save it for the campfire tonight," Autumn suggested. "We've still got a way to go…or maybe not," she amended as four men stepped out of the growth at the far end of the pass. They all held bows ready, though they were not yet trained on the visitors. Autumn didn't seem worried; she threw One and Topper a quick wink before turning to hail the visitors in what was apparently their own tongue. They replied quickly, but did not lower their bows until Autumn sauntered over and said something that made all four of them laugh, and one of them clapped her on the back.

She waved them over, and Darius shouldered his pack. "It's all right," he assured them, "we know them." He gestured for One and Topper to precede him.

"Well," Topper muttered, "it's show time."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Standard disclaimer--I own nothing except a few characters. Maul is Brandon's imaginary friend; No is Dave's._

Trader Rudi scratched his head as he surveyed the tracks that had appeared overnight around the campsite.

"I dunno," he said wonderingly. "Looks like some sort o'…giant chicken."

The little clearing beside the high road was often used for camping during the warm months, with traders, bards, and other travelers pitching tents or wrapping up in bedrolls near the ring of scorched black stones that had served as a fire ring for years uncounted. It was safe enough; this close to civilization, there was far more danger from one's fellow man than from wild beasts. And surely, no one on this road had ever seen anything that could have made such tracks as the ones that appeared in the dust of the road, wandered aimlessly about the edge of the camp, and led off into the hedges toward the river nearby.

"Griffon, mebbe?" someone wondered.

"Nah. Ev'ryone knows griffons got cat feet behind."

Maul cleared his throat, and the little group turned to where the merc leaned against one of the small trees that provided a windbreak. "If it will make you feel better," he said in his careful Valdemaran, "my partner and I will track it down and make sure it has left the area."

A broad smile crossed Rudi's weathered face. "Well, an' that's right kind of you, sir. The critter don' seem to have done any harm, but it sure would set some folks' minds at ease. Shall I wait the wagons for you, then?"

Maul shook his head. "We're in no hurry," he said. "Consider this thanks for the ride and company yesterday."

There was a curious, strangled sound from the little yellow man next to Maul. Rudi raised his eyebrows in surprise as No exclaimed, "I go look for chicken!" and sprinted off into the field.

Maul stretched, and nodded to the trader. "Good trade to you, sir", he said, and followed his partner through the hedge into the field.

Breathless howls and a series of strangled gasps led Maul to the river's edge, where he found his partner collapsed on the muddy bank, helpless with laughter. Tears streamed from No's slanted eyes as he howled with mirth.

"'Giant chicken', huh?" Maul said dryly.

Still spluttering, No reached into his pack and pulled out a curious bundles of sticks. Strapped to his feet, they had created a convincing imitation of chicken tracks while the other travelers had slept. As his laughter finally abated somewhat, No stood and hurled the sticks far out into the river, where they were quickly carried downstream.

Maul shook his head and settled onto a tree stump. "I guess I should be grateful you're not putting charcoal on my waterskin," he said, referring to No's previous practical jokes.

"But you look good with moustache," No said with mock innocence. "And I never do same trick twice."

Maul chuckled softly and slid off of the stump. "I guess I should be grateful for small favors," he muttered. Out loud he said, "Well, grab your pack and let's get going. We've still got a lot of ground to cover."

They made good time that day. Maul had served with the Black Company for nearly three years before Juniper, when the Tears of Blood had formed in wake of the Lady's betrayal, and his body had been hardened by forced marches across the breadth of the vast continent. No had never known the Black Company, only the Tears—but he had quickly adapted, and the trek they made now was not nearly as punishing as that last frantic run across the southern desert to where the Plain of Glittering Stone had waited for them.

Instead, the two men quickly fell into a steady, ground-eating lope. Maul found the late spring sunshine pleasantly warm, and pushed back the hood of his cloak to better feel the gentle radiance on his face. His mask rested in the bottom of his pack; he would not don it until the Tears were a company again.

No had no problem keeping up, though he took nearly two steps for every one of Maul's. He found the weather too cool and dry after the tropical humidity of the Nyueng Bao swamps, but the _hertasi_ had offered him clothing of tightly woven silk and soft downy fur that could be worn or removed in layers. No himself had woven the broad straw hat that shaded his face from the sun and shed the rain, and was as comfortable as possible in this alien place.

They had no animals with them; Maul could ride, but No had trouble staying on a horse's back, and both men were used to carrying what they needed on their backs. In these civilized lands, they could buy what they needed as they went, and were confident that their silver would hold out until they found paying work.

They camped alone that night, laying their bedrolls out beneath the stars. The moon was only a sliver of white; the unfamiliar constellations were clearly visible. As No busied himself cleaning up the remains of their dinner, Maul entered a light trance and laid the thin threads of spell-energy that would ward the sleepers. They radiated a disturbing field that would warn off most animals and humans—and any who ignored that warning would be subject to intense pain. Maul's magic skills were rusty; spell-energy had been thin and hard to come by in the world he had left. But it was plentiful here, running in trickles and streams and collecting in great rivers that joined at powerful nodes. Maul had not dared touch those yet; even trying to sense them was akin to staring into the sun. But he could easily handle the smaller trickles of power, and their presence was awakening half-memories of his life in yet another place.

Those glimpses frustrated him; he could never be sure how much was true, and how much just his brain playing tricks on him. It seemed sometimes that he'd been dropped full-grown onto the streets of Roses, a golem given life by some capricious god. Yet he was a man; his blood was as red as any. Enough had been spilled to prove it.

The mind-magic of the Kalad'a'in hadn't bothered him. Rather it had felt familiar, much as the magics he used now. Was this world his home? He wondered silently as he completed the circle of shining power and drew it up, a shimmering net of cobwebs, to form a dome over their beds.

But no, he hadn't come from here. His native tongue, the one that he _thought_ in, was as unfamiliar to the scholars of this world as that of the Jewel Cities or Roses or Juniper. This wasn't his home.

_But I will find it_, he swore to himself, letting the spell settle into place.

It was not the breaking of his wards that woke Maul, but the distant sound of bells. Maul rolled over in his blankets and listened intently. Yes, it sounded like bells, but ringing in a peculiar cadence. Like a galloping horse—but that horse would have to be traveling insanely fast…As he realized this, he heard the thunder of true hoof beats, and felt the tremor of the earth beneath him.

Quickly, Maul reached over and woke No with a touch on the shoulder. "Up," he whispered, and immediately No popped upright, his hand closing around the hilt of Slender Reed.

"Who comes?" he asked in Nyueng Bao.

"Riders, a lot of them. Coming fast."

As No scrambled to his feet, Maul recalled the energies of the wards and melted into the shadows of the night. A lone rider was most likely harmless—a courier or perhaps a Healer on a midnight mission of mercy. More than one, at this late hour, carried darker implications. Paranoid? Perhaps. But Maul had lived for a long time under the mantra, "It doesn't matter if you're paranoid. What matters is being paranoid _enough_."

His vigil was rewarded within moments. Looming along the road, illuminated only by starlight but seeming to glow even in that faint light, was a white horse. It was coming so fast that Maul felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as every ghost story he'd ever heard flashed through his imagination. Yet it was solid; its hooves rang against the road in the bell-like tones that had woken him, and foam dripped from its hide and the corners of its jaws.

It was only as the ghostly beast flashed past that Maul realized it carried a rider. Bundled in clothes as white as the beast's hide, and huddled against its neck, the rider was almost invisible. But Maul caught the barest glimpse of his ashen face and tight-closed eyes—and of a dark stain on his back, a stream that gleamed wetly in the faint starlight.

Their pursuers were many lengths behind, not even visible yet. But even as the horse and rider passed Maul's position, the rider began to slip from his perch. Though his steed seemed to check its speed slightly—even seemed to try to twist to stay beneath him—the rider fell bonelessly to the surface of the road.

There was no conscious thought involved when Maul stepped out of his hiding place. Later, he would reason it out something like this: He had heard a story or two about the king's men of Valdemar, the Heralds. If this was a Herald, it was likely that his mission was an important one. And it never hurts a foreign merc to render what aid he can to the monarch of the country he happens to be in. Especially since such aid often pays well in the long run.

But for now all Maul knew was that there was a lone, injured man, pursued by many. His innate sense of fair play led him to sprint to the injured man's side and turn him over—and then roll out of the way as the white horse screamed in rage and lashed out with its hooves.

_**:Leave him alone!**_ The voice ripped through his head, nearly incoherent with rage, panic, and grief. _:Bastards! Leave—him—__**alone**__! _

Each word was punctuated by a blow from those deadly hooves, and Maul found himself very busy avoiding the maddened creature. A glancing blow to his shoulder sent him spinning to the surface of the road, and the horse reared, ready to pulp his head with her hooves—and Maul tried one desperate tactic.

_:Wait!_ He put all the force he could manage into the mind-call, trying to reach past the creature's anguish. _:I just want to help!_

Those silver hooves smashed down with force of a smith's hammer—right next to Maul's ear.

_:Then get up_, the words echoed viciously, _:and defend my Chosen!_

Maul scrambled to his feet and drew his paired short swords as the other riders came into view. They were visible mainly by the faint gleam of chain and tack, much harder to see than the white horse and rider. Nor were they stupid. They pulled up as soon as they saw Maul standing in the road between them and their quarry. There was a twang of bowstrings, and a volley of arrows came arching toward them.

Too easy. Maul felt his lips curve in a grim smile and summoned the dark current of power that lay just beneath the surface of his regular awareness. He didn't know where it came from; its origins were part of the past he was missing. But it was there, and it surfaced now as he flicked his swords at the deadly missiles that threatened him.

The arrows disintegrated in flight, falling into splinters on the road.

The bandits—or soldiers, or assassins—hesitated for a stunned moment. Then there was the ring of metal as weapons were drawn, and they surged forward, trying to cut him down en masse.

Had they been dealing with an ordinary fighter, it would have worked. Had Maul been alone, they might have stood a chance. But Maul was not ordinary. He could not make them shatter as the arrows had, but his small magics could affect them in subtler ways. So he stood his ground and summoned power again, letting it wash out in a wave imperceptible to ordinary senses. It would not cause them any great trouble—but it would encourage small inconveniences. Like loose armor ties, or a slick patch underfoot. And then he brought his swords up to hook the first rider out of the saddle.

The white horse fought beside him, with sharp hooves and teeth, and the bandits in the rear died when No popped out of the shadows wielding Slender Reed. The great sword—nearly as long as No was tall—cut cleanly through bone and flesh, and horses and men both screamed in pain and fear. Maul had no more time for spells, as such—but each time he swung his blades, he let power course down his arms through the steel, and left his attackers helpless with agonizing pain.

And then there were no more left. The night was quiet, the silence broken only by the harsh breathing of Maul and No and the horse and the rider. Cleaning his blades on the cloak of his last opponent, Maul sheathed them and went to check the wounded man.

The man was dying, Maul could tell. An arrow had pierced his lung, and there was probably internal bleeding from the wound and the fall. He did not open his eyes as Maul and No moved him as gently as they could to their bedrolls.

Maul turned to the horse. "I'm sorry," he said. "I—there's nothing we can do. I, I'm not a healer."

_:I_ _know_. Her voice—it was a mare, Maul realized—was sorrowful, but it had lost the rage that had colored it earlier. _:I—I am sorry, too. But I thought you were with them—and my Chosen—we must get to Haven!_

"I don't think your, er, Chosen, is going anywhere else," Maul pointed out.

The mare's voice was becoming increasingly frantic. _:But the King must have this information!_ She said.

"Can't you go by yourself?" Maul pointed out reasonably.

_:I_—If a horse could weep, that's what Maul was seeing now_. :I could, yes—but Varren's my Chosen—how can I leave him alone?_

No spoke up. "We'll stay with him," he said in Nyueng Bao. "We can give him proper rites."

The mare shook her mane, and seemed to come to a decision. _:You helped us already—will you help me again? Valdemar will pay you well for your trouble. One of you can take the packet, and the other can stay with Varren—until—_

Maul thought for only a moment. This was an opportunity too good to pass up. "I'll have to go," he said. "No can't ride. Do you need rest or food first?"

_:Some of the grain in my saddlebags_, she told him. As he laid it out for her, she directed him to the sealed packet of papers inside the Herald's jacket. Maul quickly pulled it out and tucked it into his own shirt. The horse—_:Companion_, she corrected him, _:And my name is Sasha_.—finished her grain and waited impatiently for him to mount. Maul had barely settled himself into the saddle when Sasha took off, flying headlong down the starlit road.

The next three days were a blur of motion, broken only by Sasha's infrequent need to eat and drink. They did not sleep; Maul wondered briefly where she got her incredible endurance, but invoking his wizard's senses told him. She was channeling huge amounts of raw spell energy, replacing the natural processes of a living body with magic. Maul had heard of this trick before, had pulled it once or twice himself when standing a long vigil—but it didn't pay to do it too often, as it tended to leave the wizard who tried a burned-out husk.

It was a long and lonely ride as well; except for her demands for food, Sasha did not speak to him. The one time he tried to speak to her, Maul sensed, not a wall, but a focused concentration that did not allow interruption. And beneath that, a void of terrible anger and grief. After that, he did not try to speak to her again.

Villages flashed by in mere moments; towns took only slightly longer. No one attempted to bar their way, and there were no more attacks upon the Companion. Maul's hands became locked upon the reins, and his legs cramped where they gripped the Companion's sides. He fell into a sort of daze, where nothing mattered but staying on the Companion's back. He could not even estimate the distance they traveled; he had no energy to spare to wonder about No or the dying Herald.

Although when Sasha stumbled and nearly fell to her knees with a mental cry of deepest anguish, Maul was fairly certain of what had happened…

Still they ran, although now the maelstrom of the Companion's grief threatened to sweep Maul into its void. He grit his teeth, resisted the void's pull, and somehow hung on…

Until they passed through the gates of a city. Sasha did not slow down, her ragged hoofbeats still ringing like bells. The crowded streets became abruptly less crowded as she sent a current of mental energy ahead of them. _Get away_, it seemed to say. _Get away, stay out of our path_. It worked, and Maul was glad, not really wanting to see what would happen to anyone unfortunate enough to remain between the Companion and her goal.

Then they passed through yet another gate, and Sasha's ears pricked up. _:Rolan!_ She called. _:Please, quickly_—

Response came faster than Maul would have believed possible. Suddenly, white-clad figures came boiling out of the complex of buildings ahead of them, surrounding Sasha as she came stumbling to a halt. As the Companion fell to her knees, worried hands supported Maul, easing him out of the saddle. His legs, still cramped from the ride, threatened to buckle beneath him, and blood dripped slowly from his gloves where the reins had cut through the leather.

"Gods, look at his hands!" "Someone see to Sasha." "Where's the Princess?"

Voices swirled about him; out of the corner of his eye he saw another Companion approaching. Riderless, it walked to where Sasha lay gasping for breath and lowered its nose to hers. Maul felt—something, a stir, but the communication was private, and Maul looked away feeling oddly voyeuristic.

"Sir."

There was another Herald standing before him, a man about his own age with a careless tangle of dark curls and weary brown eyes. "May I have the packet?" the Herald was saying.

Maul fumbled in his shirt, but his injured hands were clumsy. He finally managed to fish the sealed and rumpled papers from where they had rested near his halt just as a collective moan of sorrow sounded behind him. He turned to see Sasha laying on the pavement with her mane spread across the ground. The light in her sapphire eyes was gone. Beyond her, a line of Companions watched patiently, sadness written in every line of their bodies.

In his career, Maul had seen a lot of death, had been the cause of a great deal more. It was a fact of his existence, and he no longer mourned for individuals, unless they were one of the few he considered "friend." And so it was with a sense of wonder and curiosity that he observed the obvious grief of the Heralds and Companions.

"You are Maul?"

The woman's voice distracted Maul from the sight, and he blinked as he faced a regal woman with dark hair confined by a silver band, wearing a richer version of the Herald's white uniform.

"I-I am." He had to struggle to remember to speak Valdemaran.

"I am Herald Elspeth," she said. "Rolan told my Bendis that you helped Sasha and Varren complete their mission."

"I—yes," he admitted.

Elspeth nodded. "Come," she said. "You are tired, and you need food and likely a Healer. My father has the information—you deserve recompense for your trouble."

Maul merely nodded, and followed Elspeth into the Palace that loomed before him, wondering what could possibly have been so important that two people would give their lives to see it safe.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks again for your patience everyone! This was a hard chapter to write, and I had to come to several hard decisions about these two characters, as once again art imitates life. Most of those decisions won't become apparent for some time however. Smirk_

_Anyway, standard disclaimer, I own nothing, just havin' fun, etc. Please review, everybody--it's what keeps me pluggin' away!_

* * *

_:Wake up, small warrior._

Squeaky groaned, and tried to burrow back into the darkness. Her head was in agony, and her body felt as if she'd been beaten and left at the roadside. But there was bright sun in her eyes, and something warm and wet bathing her face.

_:No_, the voice insisted. _:You must not go back to sleep._

That voice reminded Squeaky of her mother's, and she reacted instinctively to the implied authority. She opened her hazel eyes to meet a pair of warm brown ones. As she did, the _kyree_ swiped her tongue over the scout's face again, and Squeaky gagged. _Kyree_ breath was not nearly as pleasant as the creatures themselves.

"Please," she croaked, raising her hands feebly, "just a minute…please."

The _kyree_ backed away, and Squeaky closed her eyes again. She had discovered long ago that if you thought only of your breath, you could push everything else aside. So she concentrated on the feel of air going in and out of her lungs, the way her chest expanded and collapsed, and the scent of dust and sunshine and _kyree_ that the air left in her nose. Gradually, the pain in her head receded to a manageable level, and she was able to push herself up onto her elbows. Immediately a wave of nausea hit her, and she quickly rolled to her knees as her stomach heaved uncontrollably.

She lost her breakfast, last night's dinner, and everything down to her toenails, it seemed, and when it was over, she felt weak and shaky but unaccountably better. She grimaced and scooted aside while the _kyree_ who'd been watching her sniffed, grimaced, and then fastidiously scraped dirt over the mess. Her canteen was still hanging from her belt; she rinsed her mouth out with the warm stale water. Only then did she bother to look around.

Several other _kyree_ were prowling around the caravan, and Squeaky was glad to see that she wasn't the only survivor. Most of the caravan personnel were only unconscious, and quickly reviving under the _kyrees'_ ministrations. Other _kyree_ were coming in from the surrounding hills, and many of them had the reins of an exhausted horse in their mouth, or were driving a team of shivering oxen before them.

"Looks like Master Cade might make his profit this time out," she murmured.

And then her eyes fell on the dead man. A skinny, weedy fellow wearing clothes too big for him and too fine for this rough country. His neck was bent at an odd angle, and his filmy eyes stared up into the harsh noonday sun.

Squeaky's breath hitched, and her hands began to shake. "Knuckles," she whispered. Then she jumped to her feet—almost collapsed again as her head spun—screaming, "Knuckles!"

She ran two steps down the road—and nearly fell over the _kyree_ who stepped in front of her.

_:You are in no shape to be going anywhere yet_, the creature said severely.

Squeaky clenched her fists, suddenly angry at the _kyree's_ interference. "I have to," she said as firmly as she could. "I have to go after him."

_:The others of the pack will find him_, the _kyree_ said serenely. _:We will guide him back to you._

"No, you don't understand!" Frustrated, Squeaky closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to organize her scattered thoughts. "There's a man out there who looks like my partner," she said finally. "But it isn't him. He—" How to explain it? She wondered. "He did this to everyone, and when Knuckles hit him, he took my partner's skin and now he's walking around in it, and everyone will think it's Knuckles, but it isn't!"

The _kyree_ paused, and Squeaky got the impression she had surprised the beast. _:Are you certain?_ The _kyree_ asked at last, cautiously. _:Forgive me, but that sounds rather…unlikely. _

"I know that!" Squeaky said through gritted teeth. "I don't want to believe it either, because if it's true then that's my shieldmate laying over there—" Her voice broke, then, and the tears started, and the scout slid to the road again as the full impact finally hit her.

"Oh, gods," she sobbed. "He's dead. My Captain is dead."

Grall did not hesitate. The _kyree_ responded as she would to one of her own cubs, pressing close against the weeping human and licking her face, projecting waves of comfort. The scout did not cringe away, as she had half expected; instead, she threw her arms around Grall's neck and sobbed into her fur. The _kyree_ was no more empathic than any other member of her race, but the sheer despair radiating from the young human was so profound it threatened to pull Grall into the pit as well. Still she endured the storm, until it passed as all storms do. Eventually, the torrent subsided, the great gulping sobs turned to heaving breaths, and the scout's grip on Grall's neck loosened a bit as she struggled to get hold of herself once more.

"I'm sorry." Squeaky sniffed and wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of gray dirt. "I haven't done that in…a long time."

Grall's tongue lolled in a _kyree's_ grin. _:I sense you haven't had much comfort in your life, then_, she replied.

"No, not really." Squeaky closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to look seriously into Grall's warm topaz eyes. "I know this is hard to believe. But please, I have to go after this man."

_:Why?_ Grall asked. _:Even if it is true, why __**must**__ you go? Vengeance quests are a good way to get yourself killed, too_.

"I know that. But it's more than revenge." Squeaky licked her lips thoughtfully.

"We were bonded mercenaries. Knuckles—his body anyway—is still wearing the tags. I don't know how smart this man is, but unless he's really stupid, he's eventually going to take advantage of that. Someone's going to eventually figure out no one can trust him, but in the meantime, the Guild's reputation is hurt, maybe permanently, depending on who he cheats or hurts. And that hurts everyone in the Guild."

Grall listened carefully to the scout as she warmed to her subject, impressed by the mind that could think of these things under the circumstances.

"This man—whoever he is—he's _dangerous_," Squeaky said. "He can make a caravan with over sixty men and animals feel such crazy fear, they'd run off of a cliff to get away from it. What if he figures out—or has figured out—that he can inspire other feelings, too? Can you imagine what he could do in a crowded city? He could incite a mob with no effort at all if he wanted too. And—" Squeaky's voice faltered as an even uglier abuse occurred to her. "What if he sees a girl he wants? Could he make her, er, want him, long enough to do, um, whatever? I don't know how _kyree_ feel about that, but if it happened to me, I'd call it rape."

"And finally—" Squeaky took a deep breath and faced Grall squarely— "Yes, I want revenge. Knuckles was my Captain, and I loved him, and now he's dead and I want to kill the man who took him away from me."

Grall cocked her head and considered Squeaky's arguments. _:All of that is true_, she said finally, _:assuming the first part—that the man you are speaking of is not your partner, but another in his body—is also true. Will you let me closer into your mind, to determine that for myself?_

Squeaky hesitated—but only for a moment. There was quite a lot in her head that she considered private, and much that was embarrassing, but Nightsong had already had a good close look and hadn't rejected her out of hand. And it was easier to allow the _kyree_—who was not, after all, human—access to her mind than it would have been to give a human the same liberty. "Yes," she said.

Grall stared deeply into the human's eyes, and Squeaky felt a curious sensation. Like a hand on her forehead, except that it was inside her skull. The alien touch startled her, but she felt Grall's wordless reassurance and struggled to relax.

Grall was privy to the girl's internal struggle, and waited until she had calmed a bit before probing further, but a sudden surge of frustrated rage took the kyree completely by surprise, and she yelped in purely mental pain at the fierce, angry words.

_**:Who the hell are you, where the hell am I, and what the fuck is going on?! **_

Grall broke the contact quickly, staring in surprise at Squeaky. Squeaky looked just as surprised as Grall, for her eyes went wide and round, and she put a tentative hand to her forehead.

"Did…did you hear hat?" she whispered.

_:I did_, Grall said. :_May I try again?_

Squeaky gulped and nodded. If she had been nervous before, she was terrified now. But there had been something weirdly familiar about that mental voice, and a wild hope made her heart flutter.

Again Grall made contact, and this time she was prepared.

_:Who are you?_ The voice insisted. _:What the __**hell**__ is going on?_

_:I am called Grall, of the Karreth pack_, the _kyree_ said. _:Who are you?_

There was the mental equivalent of a snort_. :I'm Knuckles, Captain of the Tears of Blood. Did you put me here? Because if you did, then I swear_—

Squeaky made a strangled sort of gasp as Grall said hastily, _:I did not. Do you __**know**__ where you are?_

Frustration surged. _:NO, damn it, I don't! Tell me, if you know! And where's my standard bearer? I know she's here somewhere. If you've hurt her—_

_:If your standard bearer is the human I was talking to a moment ago, then she is largely unharmed_, Grall hastened to reassure him. _:She is far more concerned about you, since she thought you were dead_.

That statement seemed to calm Knuckles a bit. _:She's not the only one_, he muttered ironically. _:But I can think, and I can feel, so I don't think I'm dead. But I can't see anything, and I can't hear so good, and I can't seem to touch anything, and I still don't know __**where**__ I am!_

Grall broke the contact and sat on her haunches to consider. Meanwhile silent tears ran down Squeaky's face.

"Am I going mad?" she whispered. "Or is that really him?"

_:I do not think either one of us is mad_, Grall informed her tartly. _:But I have to admit that this is…entirely unprecedented_.

Squeaky bit her lip anxiously. "If—if I could just talk to him—whatever part of him is there—"

_:Of course!_ Grall leaped to her feet, and her tail waved with excitement. _:But not here. There is another, at the caves—he is something of a Mindhealer. He would know what to do_.

Squeaky wiped her eyes, sniffed again, and looked around. The caravan was still getting itself reorganized, but it didn't look as if I would be more than another half an hour or so. "I—I can't just leave," she said. "I'll have to tell the caravan master something—"

_:That's easily done_, Grall said. :_Tell him you are coming with us to track one of them who got away_.

Squeaky blinked, and then giggled. "It's even true, isn't it?" She got to her feet once again, groaning as various bruises made themselves known once again, and limped to where the guard chief was organizing the rest of the caravan guards.

An hour later—after nearly half a mark of arguing with the guard chief, an argument which concluded with the chief throwing his hands in the air and declaring her "the most stubborn wench in Rethwellan"—Squeaky was ducking into the caves where the _kyree_ pack made their home. The cool dimness was restful to her eyes, and the nagging headache eased a bit more as she followed Grall through the winding tunnels. She had to duck a bit at the entrance, but the rest of the tunnels were taller, and she could walk comfortably upright. The floors were worn smooth from countless years of leathery paws, which was a good thing because Squeaky was so busy looking around she often forgot to pay attention to where her feet were going, and she nearly fell a dozen times.

Squeaky had sheltered in more than a few caves, and had assumed the _kyree_ homes would be just as bare and dark. Instead, they were lit at comfortable intervals with tiny balls of glowing light that danced on the walls or near the ceiling. She put her hand out toward one that dipped near her head; the scarlet orb colored her fingers with a sanguine glow but seemed almost heatless. Other orbs were blue or green or soft gold, arranged in no discernable pattern.

The walls of the caves were a surprise as well. The deeper they traveled, the more beautiful and elaborate the formations became. There were no stalagmites—those had been long cleared from the floors—but great stalactites descended from the vaulted ceilings, and ribbons and sheets of colored stone made translucent curtains behind which the magic lights danced, adding to the other-world feeling of the place.

A series of yips echoed down the corridor; Squeaky checked her progress as a tangle of brindled cubs came boiling out of a side passage and blundered into her legs, nearly knocking her over. Grall made a sound, somewhere between a whine and a growl. The pups separated, and one of them touched his nose briefly to Grall's, whining softly. Squeaky grinned. She didn't have to hear the conversation to know that the older _kyree_ was reprimanding the little one, and that the little one was appropriately contrite.

"It's all right," she said. "They didn't hurt me."

All three pups perked up when she spoke, and then wriggled with delight. Grall gaped her jaws in a _kyree's_ grin as they scampered away.

_:That was kindly done_, she said.

Squeaky blushed. "They're just children," she said. "They didn't mean any harm."

Grall looked back at Squeaky and cocked her head as she continued into the caves. _:Not all humans understand that_, she pointed out.

"I've always liked animals," the scout replied, then blushed again when she realized how that sounded. "I mean, not that kyree are really animals, but—"

_:That depends on how you look at it,_ Grall said, not at all offended. _:By the word's broadest definition, humans are animals as well_.

Squeaky's brow furrowed as she thought about that statement. "I-I suppose you're right," she said after a while. "Certainly, a lot of them seem to be beasts."

_:Why do you say that?_

The _kyree's_ inquiry was friendly, but Squeaky didn't answer for a long time. Grall wondered if she would answer at all, but finally the scout sighed and said, "Where I come from, we don't have kyree or griffons or other friendly, intelligent animals. I've been a mercenary for seven years, and I've seen some pretty horrible things done to people, and most of it's been by other people. I've heard stories about monsters, but even the monsters were just people—people who'd been changed maybe, twisted by magic or some evil force, but still people at the bottom of it. I've seen things that most people who live ordinary lives can't even imagine, all of it caused by people that the priests say are supposed to be better than animals."

"When an animal kills, it's to save its life, or to fill its belly, and I can't fault it for that. Even rogues are sick, or have been driven mad or out of their element. But I can't understand the Stranglers, who kill for their goddess, or wizards like the Dominator who killed thousands, maybe millions of people in his long life, and even more after he was dead and buried. I don't understand thieves who kill someone for what they have, or nobles who arrange for a rival's death for political office. How is that 'better' than what animals do?"

The scout was pale, and there was a touch of hysteria in her voice as she continued her rambling statement.

"Even me. I had no idea what I was doing when I joined the Black Company, and I've killed a lot of people in the last seven years, and the first time it made me so sick, Candy had to send me back to camp. It still makes me sick, you know, even the ones that I know would have killed me first if they had the chance. Maybe that's the reason I've never followed a god, because I can't really believe, deep in my heart, that any real god would give such cruel creatures dominion over any world."

The last of her words seemed to hang in the air as Squeaky and Grall entered an enormous chamber of such beauty that it took Squeaky's breath away. The stalagmites had been left undisturbed, and had fused with their opposites into great fluted columns of stone. Mineral deposits glimmered with brilliant colors under the hundreds of colored lights that floated about the room, shedding complementary illumination. A small swift stream ran through the rear of the chamber, and its cold water shed a mist that gave the whole scene an ethereal quality.

In ages past, one of the huge stone pillars had fallen, and the remaining stump had the appearance of a dais, where a huge _kyree_ lay enthroned. Squeaky's jaw gaped, and her eyes opened wide. She had never seen such a specimen before. His fur was nearly black, though age had silvered the hairs around his muzzle, and his eyes were a clear amber color as he raised his regal head to regard the pair. And he was enormous—Squeaky estimated that if he stood next to her, his shoulder would come nearly to her breast, where most _kyree_ came to her waist.

He "spoke" as they entered, and his voice, a light tenor, echoed powerfully in Squeaky's head. She had the impression of great power restrained—much like the few times she'd been in the Lady's presence, though not quite that powerful. Nevertheless, she held her breath as the magnificent creature stretched, leapt to the floor in a motion that reminded her very much of the lions she'd seen once from a distance, and padded to where she and Grall stood.

_:What have you brought me, sister-mine?_ He asked.

_:A puzzle, Larryn_, Grall replied. Quickly, with images as much as words, Grall filled her brother in on what had happened in the pass. When she finished—it didn't take long—Larryn regarded Squeaky inscrutably for several long moments. _:Well, young one, let's see what can be done_, he said, and again she felt that odd "touch" inside her head. Larryn's amber eyes seemed to grow larger. They filled Squeaky's vision as the pressure in her head increased. Oddly enough, the lingering headache receded, and again, she heard another voice in her head.

_**:What the fuck is going on around here!**_

It _had_ to be Knuckles. Squeaky normally didn't even _think_ words like that. She stifled a wholly inappropriate giggle at her Captain's very typical reaction.

If Larryn replied, he kept it private, but Squeaky could feel Knuckles' reaction, his sudden shocked understanding. Again the _kyree's_ eyes dominated her own vision, and this time it felt as if that spectral hand was rummaging through the doors and cupboards of her mind. It was unsettling, but painless, and Squeaky waited patiently until Larryn spoke again.

_:There_. His mental voice sounded quite satisfied. _:That should do for now_.

"What—what did you do?" Squeaky asked tentatively.

_:I believe that the pair of you should be able to communicate more easily now_, the kyree said. _:What has happened to you is not entirely unknown, _he continued. _:The Hawkbrothers, for instance, have been known to form bonds with their birds so deep, that one will occasionally be unable to separate himself from the bird's mind. The same thing has happened here. When Knuckles was cast loose from his physical body, he instinctively attached himself to the person he was closest to—you. Now his mind resides within yours._

Squeaky bit her lip. _Captain?_ She thought hesitantly.

The answer came immediately. _:Report, soldier!_


	9. Chapter 9

Teniff stared at the flames of the fire. The shaman of the Gray Wolf clan was worried. The shadow that he had been glimpsing in dreams was drawing ever closer. He saw a gleam of gold in the shadow, a faint glimmer that resolved into a three pointed spear. Teniff sighed, and sat back, dispelling the vision.

"The Wolf remains silent?"

The question came from the chief. Teniff nodded soberly.

"Yes," he replied. "I still do not know whether this shadow will plunge us into darkness—or lift us out."

* * *

One and Topper studied the men before them, and were studied in return.

"These are warriors of the Grey Wolf clan," Autumn explained.

"Are they friendly?" Topper asked anxiously.

The redhead shrugged. "They're not _un_friendly," she replied. "Look, I got you here—it's up to you to make nice."

The warriors were dressed in heavy leather and fur, dyed and embroidered in garish colors. They carried bows with arrow heads of flint and obsidian, and spears with gleaming metal heads. No armor that One could see, though their clothing was heavy enough to turn aside a few blows, and he surmised that the group was a hunting party. One of them said something to Autumn that sounded suspicious; she only laughed and replied something that provoked an answering grin. All four men relaxed then, lowering their bows.

"What did you tell them?" Topper muttered.

"That you were Southern outlanders who had peaceful business with the chief, and that if I was lying, they could sacrifice us to the Wolf."

Topper blinked. "Are you—what—did you really—?"

The guide rolled her eyes. "No. Look, I told you, I know these guys. I just vouched for you as a friend of Raven."

"Uh huh." Topper was still unconvinced. "Then what were they laughing about?"

Autumn sighed. "It's…what you'd call an inside joke. Remember how I told you about the division between men and women here?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, they consider me to be one of the 'Man-souled women'."

"Okay…"

"And they looked at the pair of you and wondered if maybe I was reconsidering that position."

Topper blinked, nonplussed by this. "Oh." He squinted at the girl. "Are you?"

Autumn just shook her head. "Of course not. That restriction only applies on this side of the mountains. Anyway, it's not like I'm not, you know, _flexible_ about that sort of thing."

Which was a statement loaded with enough possibilities to keep Topper's imagination busy for hours.

Meanwhile, they were escorted cordially enough to the village. Topper took in the sturdy tents with an engineer's eye, while One studied the people. They were a sturdy dark people, and many of the men sported full dark beards. Their clothing was heavy, with a great deal of leather and fur and felt. But they were as fond of color as any of the Kalad'a'in, with bright geometric designs painted on vests, trousers, shirts and boots, and jewelry of hammered copper, set with nuggets of amber, turquoise, and amethyst tumbled and polished until smooth and bright.

The Valdemaran side of the mountains was the territory of the Ghost Cat; One had had ample opportunity to study that clan's sturdy round lodges. The Grey Wolf clan seemed more nomadic; their dwellings were felt tents, easily collapsible, yet sturdy enough once erected. And like Ghost Cat's lodges, each tent was brightly painted and decorated, both with stylized wolves, as well as each individual's totems. There were no herds in evidence, nor agriculture. There were, however, many large dogs; huge, even tempered beasts that raised their heads curiously when the visitors walked by but did not growl.

Groups of women were busy scraping hides, smoking fish, or weaving supple branches into broad baskets. They gave the strangers sidelong glances, while trying not to appear too curious. The men were far more open, their curiosity undisguised, as one member of the hunting party broke free of the little group and headed straight for one of the knots of men that sat here and there, talking amongst themselves. Conversation stopped as the young hunter breathlessly related his story.

But it was the movement at one of the tents that caught One's eye, and he turned his head to look directly at the old man who emerged to regard the strangers steadily. His face betrayed none of the surprise or astonishment of his fellows; instead, One thought the old man looked sad. There was something else about him, as well, and it took One a moment to identify the feeling, because it had been so long since he had met another true priest. One inclined his head respectfully to the old man, who returned the gesture before walking unhurriedly to meet them.

The old shaman reached them at the same time as the slightly younger—but equally weathered—man that Autumn identified as the chief. Both men wore capes of wolfskin, with the head of the wolf forming part of the hood. The shaman spoke to Autumn, in stilted Valdemaran.

"Fire-hair, you have returned."

Autumn favored him with one of her smiles. "I have, Teniff. And I have brought visitors." She indicated the two mercenaries with a wave of her hand. "The big one is called One. The other is his friend Topper, and this sky-lady—" she pointed to Shestryl's form as she flew back and forth over the village—"is the fierce and lovely Shestryl, of the Silver Griffon clan."

Now the shaman's eyes met One's. "And what business do you have with the people of the Wolf?" he asked.

"We are mercenaries," One replied. His own Valdemaran was still poor, though Autumn and Darius had been drilling him and Topper in the language. But he thought he knew enough to make himself understood. "We have heard of the bravery of the northern warriors, and wish to see if there are any who would leave with us, to fight for coin in the south."

As Autumn translated softly, there was a stir from the gathered men. The chief frowned, but the shaman only cocked his head slightly.

"What power of the south do you fight for?" he asked. "What nation holds your coin?"

"None," One replied honestly. "We do not come here at the behest of any nation. The brothers of the Tears of Blood are loyal first to each other, and then to our employer. But our numbers are few, and we need warriors, fierce fighters to fill our ranks. That is why we have come here, beyond the guardian mountains, for we have heard of the bravery of the warriors of the north."

The shaman lowered his voice a trifle as the rest of the tribe considered One's words, and asked, "And who do _you_ fight for?"

One did not hesitate or dissemble. "Vancor," he said formally. "Gods of all gods, of all worlds."

An incomprehensible look crossed the shaman's face. A sort of weary sadness, coupled with fear, resignation, and…hope? Whatever his thoughts, the shaman's voice was cordial enough as he said, "You may find what you seek, here, One of Vancor, or you may not. But for tonight, as the guest of our friend, you may eat at our fire and pitch your tents with ours."

One and Topper lost no time thanking the chief and shaman for their hospitality, and several children came forward to take possession of the chirras' reins and show the new guests where they could pitch their tents. Shestryl, with a griffon's love for drama, managed to land directly in their midst, vaning her wings high to avoid buffeting the little ones off of their feet, but still sending clouds of dust into everyone's faces. At first, the children ran off shrieking, but Darius smiled gently, and made a show of scratching her neck beneath the feathers. Shestryl squinted her eyes and allowed her beak to gape foolishly, and soon the younglings were giggling, and then they lost their fear entirely to swarm about her feet. She made certain to place her clawed and taloned feet delicately as Autumn and Darius erected their shared tent. Topper carried a tebt for himself and One, but they had no plans to use it.

Topper snorted with contempt as he looked at the small felt tents.

"I can think of six dif'rent ways to make these things smaller, lighter—and warmer," said the engineer.

Darius smiled at that.

"The trick will be getting them to allow you to show them," he said in Kalad'a'in. That was still the language all of them had most in common. "You have to remember that these people have had very little change in their way of life for the last few centuries. Your coming is already like a rock thrown into a pond. It makes a big splash with a lot of ripples, and you're going to scare the fish. Though these tribes aren't as tenacious as the Haileigh."

"The who?"

One laid his blankets on the ground, sat down, and fished though his pack for one of the little blocks of wood he carried, all the while listening closely. Shestryl had compared him to a Haileigh, when he had first awakened, and he was interested to hear more about them.

"They're called the Black Kings," Darius said. "Which is apt. They're a very tall people, with very black skin—a lot like One. They live far to the south, over an ocean…"

And so an hour passed as Darius lectured quietly, Topper listened while puffing on a pipe, and One kept an ear to the Healer as he carefully shaped a piece of wood with small strokes of a tiny knife.

Finally Autumn walked over and tapped her brother on the shoulder. "Meal's almost ready." She grinned at One and Topper. "Be prepared to 'ooh" and 'ahh", and compliment their hunting skill. Shouldn't be too difficult—it's elk tonight. And northern cuisine isn't anything as exotic as, say, Shin'a'in cooking. Butter-tea—ugh!"

Darius rose unhurriedly as Topper stashed his pipe and One scraped shavings into the fire. They followed the murmur of voices through the village to the large central fire where the men of the tribe were gathering. There was, indeed, an elk, as well as some sort of stew, thick with chunks of roots and other hearty vegetables, and a piece of some sort of unleavened bread. A woman with tanned, rosy cheeks and a shy smile served One his portion before melting away, presumably to go to the other, smaller fire burning cheerfully not too far away. One tasted it and found it excellent. There were earthen bowls for the stew, but no plates. The men solved that problem by holding the meat in one hand, biting into it, and then slicing off a bite-size portion with the other hand. It didn't take either One or Topper long to get the hand of it, though Topper worried about slicing off his own lips at first. Darius tasted his, reached into one of his many pockets, and sprinkled something on his share, passing it to One.

"What's this?" One asked in Kalad'a'in.

"Dried garlic and peppers," answered the Healer. "I like the spice."

One nodded, and added a generous portion to his stew, though Topper refused. The rest of the meal passed amiably enough, and One was struck by how much these people's ways resembled those of the Nar. Even the boasts of the young hunters were nearly identical, though the language was alien.

As they ate, One became aware of the scrutiny of one of the older boys. Not yet a man, but obviously outgrowing a child's games, the boy watched all of the newcomers closely, but particularly One. As the meal progressed, the boy contrived to move closer to One, listening carefully to the big man's words, and to Autumn's translations.

One reached casually into a pouch and pulled out one of the little wooden tokens he had carved over the course of the trip. It was a flat wooden octagon, with a trident carved into one face. Still looking at the hunter who was bragging about his stealth in stalking the elk, One flipped the token in the boy's direction.

It landed at his feet, and the boy quickly laid his toe over it, and then reached down to pick it up. His eyes were shining as he looked back at One, then scurried away. As he did, One saw a curious look on the chief's face. It looked as if the chief was about to say something; then the shaman leaned over and whispered in the chief's ear. The chief flushed, and shook his head ruefully.

"What was that all about?" Topper muttered.

"I'd say the chief just handed over his silver to the shaman," One replied.

"Yeah, I got that part," Topper said impatiently. "I mean, _why_? Did I miss somethin'?"

"Vancor's ways are often obscure to those who do not embrace them."

As bellies were filled, braggart stories of hunting prowess were replaced with legends and myths of the Gray Wolf tribe. The shaman cleared his throat and began to tell the tale of how the gods first came to the Northern people. Topper filled his pipe, and a block of wood appeared in One's hands, as the shaman drew them into the legend.

_"Once, before the sundering of the world, the tribes of wolf and cat and raven and fox were all one people. We lived here, north of the mountains, and we lived in peace._

_But below the roof of the world, great things were happening. The wind brought with it the scent of war. But it was not our war, and so we did nothing except to watch, in case it should spread beyond the guardian peaks._

_And then, the war ended. But its ending brought with it what seemed the end of the world itself. The world was twisted, as great magics were unleashed across its face. Creatures appeared that had never been meant to exist, and magic as we knew it failed utterly. We were helpless, children abandoned in a hostile wilderness._

_But the priests counseled hope, and they prayed for some means of survival. From the smoke of their fires came the spirits—Wolf, Cat, Fox and Raven, the hot-blooded Wolverine, the clever Magpie, and the great Bear. Each of these spirits chose those men and their wives that were most like the spirit itself, and took those men under their protection. They taught their people how to live in this new world, the ways that would preserve both man and world. They taught us new magics to replace those which had been lost, and taught each young man how to find his own guide and guardian. And they swore never to abandon us, if we in turn would not forget them."_

As the shaman's ended his story, Topper leaned in to Autumn. "Would they mind if I told a story?" he asked. "Maybe used a little illusion?"

The scout seemed a bit surprised. "I don't think so," she said.

And so Topper leaned forward. The smoke of the campfire made a "screen" onto which he projected the dim image of a wide plain cut with black stone roads and studded with columns that glittered with gold dust. "This is the plain of Glittering Stone," he said in Kalad'a'in. Beside him, Autumn translated. "It is…an in-between sot of place, not wholly in any world, but touching many. From one of the Worlds it touches, come the Tears of Blood." And now the audience could see, moving down one of the many roads, a score of mounted fighters. Topper's illusions were not greatly detailed, but it was easy enough to recognize One's ebony figure, and his golden trident. "They are warriors, mercenaries, but they do not fight now for coin, but for survival." There was a slight gasp from the audience as they saw the army moving behind them like a mass of storm clouds.

"The Tears will not go down easily. They know they will die, that they cannot possibly win—but they will take as many of their enemies with them as they can." This course of action brought a growl of approval from the Wolves. "They have found a place to put their backs, so that the enemy is forced to come at them from the front." A picture of the Shadowgate, looming above the road, and a glimpse of a small figure planting the standard at its base. "But—something—happened."

As the army rolled forward, Topper's illusion flashed white, and then evaporated. "The remains of the Tears found themselves in a new place, a new world—one of those touched by the Plain of Glittering Stone. They are strangers here, but still brothers, and they will make their way as they always have—on the strength of their blades."

It was obvious that no one but the shaman believed a word of it, but it was applauded as a good story nonetheless. More stories followed, and most of the children had gone to bed when the chief stood and headed for his own tent. This seemed to be a tacit signal; the other men began fading back from the fire. Autumn yawned, and stood as well, but stopped when the shaman signaled her to stay.

The shaman looked at One. "You are the shadow that I have seen approaching," he said, and his voice was heavy and tired. "I see disaster in your wake, and darkness, but I do not know whether you are the bringer of darkness, or our savior from it."

"I am old, and I have seen many changes. I know that things must change—but I could wish that the changes you herald had come in some other time. Tomorrow, we will have a gathering. If you wish the wolf's blessing, you will join us in looking to the other side."

One nodded his head. "I will be there," he said.

He headed for his blankets. Shestryl had already lay down between his bedroll and Topper's, and she spread her wings as they approached. Each man lay down, and was immediately covered with a blanket of living feathers. This was why they didn't bother with a tent unless it was going to rain, or in the very coldest part of the mountains. A maternal griffon was far warmer and more comfortable. She bent her head to each man, briefly preening his hair, before she tucked her head into her own feathers. All three were asleep within moments.

Breakfast was fish baked in clay, for everyone but Shestryl, who preferred to hunt for red meat. She declared her intention to hunt some distance away, to the evident relief of the warriors, who had looked somewhat worried when they considered the sheer amount of meat a predator her size could consume. The shaman held a short conversation with Autumn, who told One, "There are some preparations for the ceremony tonight that have to be made. Until then, you are all free to do as you like. Of course, any molestation of the tribe will result in arrows, but I suspect you already knew that."

"How 'bout willing company?" Topper asked. "Does that count as molestation?"

"Don't be silly," Autumn said, and her gray eyes glinted with mischief. "Now, Darius wants to go herb hunting, and I'm going to go with him. These people are ridiculously healthy right now, so there's nothing else for him to do, and it won't hurt either one of you to practice their tongue." With that, she shouldered her quiver and walked to where her brother stood waiting patiently.

One watched them go without complaint, fingering the half-finished carving he'd started yesterday. An idea was percolating through his head, and he wandered over to where the older boys—including the one he'd noticed last night—were organizing some sort of game. The goal seemed to be to capture a painted stick guarded by the other team. Other than that, the rules seemed very loose.

The lad he'd given the token to the night before noticed him watching, and gave him a shy nod of his head. One took that as an invitation, and moved closer. Immediately he was surrounded by a group of boys all looking up at him with awe in their faces.

One smiled and began separating them into teams himself. He deliberately put many of the smaller boys together, to their evident consternation. One smiled when they protested, and herded them a little to one side. Then he showed them a few of the simple finger-signs the Tears of Blood had found so useful. It had evolved into a complicated language all its own, but One used only the simplest of signs, demonstrating their meaning as best he could.

At first the boys only watched, uncomprehending. Then one of them got it. His face lit up as he exclaimed in delighted discovery. One repeated the sign, and the boy copied it as best he could. Now the boys crowded closer, and One taught them a few more signals.

Suddenly the boy he'd given the token to burst into a flood of words. _He understands,_ One thought. _He knows now why I've showed them this new thing._ One moved back now, indicating with a wave of his hand that the boys should return to their game. He sat some distance away, pulling the carving from his pouch and letting his hands move of their own volition as he watched the game unfold.

At first it seemed as if "his" team was at a disadvantage. The boys were mostly smaller, and the rules allowed for a great deal of roughhousing. And then one of the boys signaled _spread out_—and they scattered, leaving the members of the other team confused for a moment before they spread out as well.

After that, the unspoken communication gave the smaller boys the advantage. The other team could not understand the finger-speech, and so were kept off balance. And when one of "his" team finally captured the other team's stick, One could not resist the grin that spread over his face. The sun was warm on his skin as he finished his carving, watching as the other boys crowded enviously around the winners, all demanding to learn the signs that had led to victory. That had been exactly his intention.

Topper had an interesting afternoon as well. While One introduced finger-speech to the boys, Topper spoke with the women. They ducked their heads modestly and hid their smiles behind broad blunt-fingered hands, but they were willing to talk, especially when he tried out his halting grasp of the northern tongue. (He had always had an affinity for languages. It came in handy in the south, where there were often as many as four languages spoken in the _same city_.) What he discovered excited him as fully as the boys' games had excited One.

These seemingly unsophisticated people had a very sophisticated grasp of numbers and mathematics. The women demonstrated for him their system of counting and records—mostly consisting of an elaborate knot pattern as accurate as any abacus. Topper felt like dancing when he realized they grasped the concept of zero. It was all he could do to keep from attempting to recruit a few of them then and there for the core of his new engineering corps. _But that would shock them too badly,_ he realized. _Later, when they finally realize that "the way things are" isn't always "the way things must be"…_

Autumn and Darius returned from the forest to find One and Topper engaged in an animated discussion as they sat near the firepit in front of their tent. Shestryl lay close by, listening alertly.

"I cannot undersstand them," she complained to Darius. "They arre too excited to sspeak Kalad'a'in."

Darius smiled quietly and reached up to scratch beneath her neck feathers, but she moved away irritably, and he desisted. Curious at her reaction, he examined the griffon's emotions more closely—not probing, just using his natural Empathy.

_Oh, my, _he thought, suppressing his grin at what he read. _I wonder if One has any idea…_ The Healer shook his head and sighed quietly. _Well, I won't meddle—what she chooses to reveal is entirely her business. But I understand completely—and I have as much chance of realizing my desires as she does. More, perhaps—I'm at least the same species._

Then the shaman approached, and Darius put aside the concerns of the heart for the time being.

"It is nearly time," he said. He handed a gourd filled with some sort of murky liquid to Darius. "This contains special herbs," he continued. "They will make seeing the spirits easier. Only one swallow each, Healer. The women will prepare you, and then you will come to my tent. Do you understand?"

Both Darius and Autumn nodded, and passed the message to One and Topper. Autumn declined to drink the potion. "I don't really feel like sitting half-naked around a fire talking to ghosts," she said. "Me and Shestryl will wait until you boys are done."

"But I want to go, too!" Shestryl protested. Daruis shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "I have no idea how these herbs will affect a griffon. If you have a bad reaction, I have no way of controlling you and making sure you don't hurt yourself or anyone else."

Shestryl opened her beak to argue, but Autumn cut her off.

"Come on," she coaxed. "Griffons are smarter than humans—prove it by not arguing with your _trondi'irn._"

Shestryl grumbled and conceded the argument with as much grace as any disappointed griffon could muster. Darius passed around the gourd, and each man took a swallow. Topper grimaced as he passed the potion to One.

"Gah! What do they make that out of—toenail filings?"

One did not protest the taste. It was almost identical to the one he had drunk so many years ago, before he had entered another shaman's tent. Again, the eerie similarities between these people and the Nar struck him afresh. He felt curiously detached as the woman surrounded him, helping him out of his shirt and painting bright designs on his bare chest, arms, and face. Darius and Topper were similarly adorned, and as the potion coursed through his system, the lines of scarlet and blue seemed to writhe across their pale bodies.

It was a short journey to where the shaman waited in his tent, but it seemed to take a hundred years to cross the camp. Time and space flowed oddly, but One was not concerned. He focused on his goal and simply took a step at a time, until he was ducking through the flap into the smoke-filled darkness of the tent.

He settled naturally into a cross-legged posture opposite the shaman. Darius sat to his left; Topper flopped down on his right. The fragrant smoke came from a small bundle of herbs that smoldered in a shallow earthen bowl. One closed his eyes and breathed deeply as a low chanting began to sound outside the tent.

The shaman picked up the rhythm of the chant, shaking a beaded rattle as he sprinkled a pinch of powder onto the burning herbs. One's skin prickled as power built in the tent, an ancient primal force that harkened back to days when humans huddled in caves without the knowledge of fire to drive away the terrors of the night. His head fell back and his hands fell open on his thighs as he opened himself to the power.

Then something crystallized. The chanting came to an abrupt stop, and One opened his eyes to see the smoke darken and writhe and coalesce into a dim four-legged shape. Topper gasped and muttered something in Juniper as blue eyes opened in a wedge-shaped head, and One found himself eye-to-eye with the Gray Wolf.

_:We have glimpsed your coming as a shadow on the world,_ the Wolf said. _:You come in a time of change, and you could be either the savior of all of our peoples, or the one who scatters us to the winds, to lose all that makes us what we are._

The Wolf's blue eyes sparkled, and One found himself staring at a vision of a broad seashore. A single barbarian stared with wonder at the brightly painted ship that approached swiftly from the horizon.

_:Already the Seashan tribe have faced invaders who come from across the wide bitter water,_ said the Wolf.

Another vision, this time of armored warriors armed with shining steel running rampant through a village like the one they were in now.

_:In the east, soldiers from a vast empire have made yet another move to expand their territory._

Again a shift in perspective, and One saw a land, white and cold, where a straggling family group moved across the tundra. One fell, rolled once and lay still. The others kept walking, and even through the thick furs that muffled their faces, One could see their despair.

_:In the farthest north, the lands are changing. The animals that feed the people have dies or moved elsewhere, and they are forced to move as well._

The visions faded back into the eyes of the Wolf. _:The world changes, _he said, _and we must change with it. You are god-touched; we recognize this, though we are unfamiliar with Him. You have new ideas, new things to teach us. It is possible that you can show us how to survive in the world-that-is-coming. If you will help us do this, then we spirits will allow some of our people to travel with you, to fight with you. _

One inclined his head gratefully to the spirit. The spirits' resistance would not have stopped him, but his task would certainly be easier with their cooperation. "Thank you," he said in his native tongue, knowing the Wolf would understand. "I will do as you ask ."

The Gray Wolf faded as the tent was opened, and fresh air came pouring into the tent. One felt the potion's effect recede; his head became clearer and a pleasant shudder ran down his back as the cooler air from outside replaced the suddenly suffocating warmth of the tent. One uncoiled himself and emerged into the cool evening.

Beside him, Topper was paler than usual, and muttering to himself. "I saw the Ferryman," he repeated. "I saw the Ferryman."

Darius touched the engineer's shoulder. Topper started violently and turned his wild gaze to the Healer. "Come on," Darius said gently. "I know how to sober you up." Wrapping an arm around the bigger man's shoulder, Darius led him to where his twin waited with water, soap, and clean shirts.

One just stood there beneath the emerging stars, in no particular hurry to do anything. He heard a rushing sound from overhead, and looked up as Shestryl plummeted from the sky to land immediately in front of him, startling several dogs with her abrupt entrance.

"Well?" she asked impatiently. "Did you ssee the Gray wolf? Did you talk to the sspiritss?"

"Yes," One replied.

"What did they ssay?"

One merely smiled, and as the griffon squawked with impatience, walked to where the boy he'd singled out talked with his friends. The group of boys fell silent as he approached, a painted shadow against the slowly gathering dark, looking up at him with awe, but no fear. One reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch made of a scrap of red silk. He handed it to the lad with a smile, and then headed for the guest tent. He looked back as the boy tipped the contents of the pouch into his palm, and then looked to One with joy shining in his face. As One pushed his way into the tent, with Shestryl close behind, the boy cupped his hand possessively around the carved lion.


	10. Chapter 10

Maul allowed himself to be guided into the vast sprawl of granite that was the Palace. His legs were still cramped from gripping Sasha's sides, and he stumbled once, recovering quickly. Not so quickly that Elspeth didn't notice; she glanced at him, and her sliver-gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She said nothing, but slowed her pace so that Maul could keep up without straining. He found himself grateful for both the care and the discretion.

They walked swiftly through the twists and turns of the corridors. Maul automatically memorized any distinctive features—statues, tapestries, etc—as best he could, not because he truly thought he was in any immediate danger, but because one never knew. Finally, Elspeth stopped and opened a door into a small cozy chamber containing a desk, two chairs, a small backless couch snugged beneath the single window, and many shelves of books.

"Sit down," she said, indicating one of the chairs. "Let me see your hands."

Maul sat with an inaudible sigh of relief. The chair was well padded in worn leather, sturdy and exactly the right size. It felt wonderful to sit on something that wasn't moving. Elspeth perched, not in the other chair, but on the edge of the desk. She reached out and began carefully removing the ruined gloves from his hands, and her skin was soft and cool. Yet, as she examined his palms, Maul recognized the calluses on her hands, almost identical to his, the mark of one skilled and experienced with a sword. They seemed at odds with her appearance of pampered nobility and he found himself more confused than ever.

"I can't do much," she was saying, "but a touch of the Healing gift still runs in my family."

As she spoke, Maul felt a strange cool tingle, and the agony of his slashed palms eased tremendously. The sheer relief made him a bit lightheaded for a moment.

"That should do, until the Healer arrives."

Just then, there was knock on the door. Elspeth slid off of the desk to answer, revealing the curly-haired Herald who had taken the packet from Maul, and a boy of about ten in a light-blue uniform burdened with a covered platter. Elspeth took the platter and stood back to allow the other Herald to enter. He closed the door behind him and sat in the second chair as Elspeth placed the tray on the desk.

"Do you feel up to eating?" she asked as she lifted the cover, and Maul nodded.

It was a bit of a challenge, with hands that were injured and nearly numb, but Maul was making inroads on the slices of cold meat and bread that heaped the platter when there was yet another knock on the door. This time, the visitor was an elderly woman in a rumpled green smock and trousers who looked at Maul over her spectacles, "humphed" once, and took his hands in hers. Again that cool tingle flooded him—but this time it was stronger, so intense that he was content to simply take it in. He realized, with the part of his brain that was still capable of thinking, that this must have happened when Nightsong had healed him back at the Vale, and he wished he could have been awake for that…

And then the feeling receded, and Maul looked down at his hands, whole now and unscarred. Not only that, but his legs no longer cramped, and he was not nearly as weary as he had been before. Tired, yes, but no longer ready to drop. He bowed his head to the Healer.

"My thanks," he told her, and was rewarded with a grin that spread like sunshine over her wrinkled face.

"A trifle, my boy," she wheezed. "Just try not to do it again, hmm?" And then she was gone, leaving Maul alone with the two Heralds.

"Ahem." Maul gave his attention to the man, who ran his hand through his tangled curls, disheveling them even more. "I'm Herald Koric, the King's Own," he said formally. "I know some of what happened already—Rolan got some of it from Sasha before she died. But I need your side of it as well. Tell me everything you can—why you were on the road, where you were going, who was with you, what you remember of the men who were hunting Verran—everything, no matter how insignificant it may seem."

Maul took a deep breath as Elspeth handed him a cup of tea. "I'm a mercenary," he began. "I was traveling with my partner, looking for work. We stopped to camp for the night, and I was awakened by what sounded like bells…"

Elspeth and Koric listened carefully as Maul recounted the entire incident. Koric's brow furrowed slightly when Maul mentioned the curse he had used to shatter the arrows and inconvenience the Herald's attackers, but he did not interrupt. Elspeth's face remained opaque. When he told them of the arrow wound Verran had suffered, she slid from her perch on the desk and wandered to the window, where she stood for the rest of the narrative with her back to Maul and her arms folded tight across her middle.

There was silence when Maul finished, and he took the opportunity to drink his now-cold tea. Finally Koric leaned forward and asked, "You're a mage, yes? What school and rank are you?"

The question made Maul blink. "I—have no school…that you would recognize," he said cautiously. "And I do not know how you rank your wizards here in Valdemar."

Koric nodded thoughtfully, and swiveled his head to face Elspeth. "Princess?" he asked. "What do you think?"

_Princess?_ Before Maul could react to that revelation, she answered, and her voice was distant as she said, "I think we should hire him."

Koric's jaw dropped, as did Maul's, but Princess Elspeth turned and gave Koric a look which Maul interpreted as, _We'll talk about this later_. Koric closed his mouth, and nodded. Then he stood up, bowed slightly to Maul and more deeply to Elspeth.

"Would you object to staying the night here, in the Palace?" he asked delicately. "It seems we may have—business—to discuss."

* * *

No wanted to go home. This place was too cold and too dry, the cadences of the local tongue grated on his ears, and _everyone_ was taller than he was! Well, that had always been the case since leaving the tropical swamps where the Nyueng Bao made their homes, but it had been different in his own world, or with the Kalad'a'in. They had preferred low tables, and sprawled on cushions or low stools for the most part. Not like this heathen land, with its high heavy furniture that seemed purposely designed to make him feel as insignificant as possible.

And now he was lonely as well. Maul had been the only creature in this world that he had felt any sort of kinship with, and he had ridden away leaving No with only a dying man as a companion. Well, No had made the man—the _Herald_, whatever that meant—as comfortable as possible, until his inevitable end. He hadn't know what death rites these barbarians used, so he had said a Nyueng Bao prayer before picking through the dead man's pockets, wrapping the white-clad body in a light blanket, and gifting it to the river. It was what he would have done for any of his people, it was exactly what he had done for his own father, and it was as much as he could do for this stranger who had become so abruptly involved in his business. The bodies of the bandits were also thrown into the river, but with no prayer to honor them, and the silver in their pockets joined that in No's.

So. What to do now became the question, and No determined to keep walking in the direction he and Maul had already decided upon. No had no idea how far away this "Haven" place was, but he figured Maul wouldn't expect him to hang around in one place. His packs were quickly gathered up; Slender Reed rested in her usual place across his back, gleaming in the late morning sun.

There was no scabbard for her; she was too big to unsheath properly, and so No carried her tied just under the quillions with a leather thong, where the heavy blade remained unsharpened. When he had need of her, a quick jerk would sever the tie, and she would be in his hands in an eyeblink. Or, he could simply reach behind his shoulder and give the trailing end a jerk, and the knot would come undone, allowing him to lay the sword down without cutting the tie. A thorough cleaning and oiling every night meant that she never rusted; a murmured song to the blade's spirit meant she would never desert him. And thus far, all of his care had been rewarded. Since the very hour when No had retrieved the blade from those members of his clan that would have destroyed her, she had guarded his life with her gleaming edge.

Oh, some of it was his own skill, too. Though he had been only the merest student of the Path of the Sword, the intense discipline required had elevated him well above those who had learned the sword in the field or under some heathen teacher with no concept of the true nature of the union between soul and steel. But without a partner—without Slender Reed, whose spirit sang in unison with his own soul when they danced their battle-dance—without such a partner, what use was any amount of skill?

But however elegant a lady she might be, Slender Reed could not speak to him, could not laugh at his jokes or share an ironic observation. And so No was lonely and chilled despite the clothing the _hertasi_ had made for him. He pulled his _hazori_ low over his face and trudged along, a little yellow man with a sword seemingly too big for him, as alien as it was possible to be in this land that welcomed nearly everyone who crossed its borders.

He worried, for a time that whoever had ambushed the Herald might attempt to do the same to him. But this was civilized territory, with few opportunities for outright banditry, so after two days of looking over his shoulder, No figured he was safe enough. Which didn't mean he could afford to be careless. Rather than camping on the road, he holed up in barns or cheap inns, and he accepted rides form peddlers and farmers whenever possible, both to make better time and to make it more difficult for anyone to track his progress. Unless they had a wizard who could scry his face. No knew that was a possibility, but after considering it, he decided not to let it worry him too much. If they _did_ have a wizard, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He had been walking for a week, headed steadily toward Haven, when his ears caught the sound of bells on the road. Remembering his midnight awakening, No looked around for some sort of cover, but had found nothing suitable by the time the white horse and rider appeared on the road ahead of him. He moved aside to allow them to pass, but they stopped right beside him. The rider—a tall lean woman with graying hair pulled back from a long bony face—looked down and said something in Valdemaran.

"No speakee!" No answered suspiciously.

To his surprise, the rider smiled and dismounted. She pulled a folded paper from her saddlebag and handed it to No. The edges were pasted closed, but there was a crude sketch of the weeping mask the Tears used as their standard on the outside. Quickly, No ripped open the paper and found a single line in Maul's sprawling hand: _This is your ride to Haven_.

No grinned and whooped in delight, as the Herald smiled indulgently. It took a few minutes to get all the packs distributed onto the Companion, and then she laced her fingers together to form a step that allowed the much shorter man to scramble onto the pillion pad behind the saddle. When No was settled comfortably, the Herald mounted in front of him, indicating that he should hold onto her belt. Remembering how quickly the Companion had taken off with Maul, No took a firm grip on the white leather. As soon as he had done so, he felt the Companion's muscles surge beneath him, and they were away, with No's gleeful shout hanging in the air behind him.

* * *

A week after his abrupt arrival, Maul was summoned once again to the small office where he had talked with Koric and Elspeth the first day. He had not seen the Princess at all, except at a distance, but Koric had made time to speak with him briefly at least once every day. He had arranged for No's transportation to Haven. ("I promise Herald Felicia will be a little more considerate of him than Sasha was of you," he'd said with a half-grin.) Maul had been installed in a room, assigned a few gray-clad trainees to act as servants of a sort, and then been left largely to his own devices. At first he had been puzzled, then almost insulted. Could these people really be so naïve, to trust him so quickly, or did they completely discount him?

But after a day or so, he realized it was neither. He was neither completely trusted, nor considered harmless. He was still largely an unknown quantity. But he had arrived on a Companion. That seemed to be enough, at least for the Heralds, to _begin_ to trust him. And everyone listened to the Heralds.

Oh, not everyone listened _entirely_ to the Heralds. Maul spent just enough time in court to realize quickly that Valdemar's King (who also wore Herald's Whites on his gaunt aged frame,) did not rule so much as reign. His word was not necessarily law. In the few hours Maul spent in the Throne Room, he heard at least a hundred compromises. Yet most of the King's judgments and decisions seemed to make most people, if not completely happy, at least mostly satisfied. And those who were _not_ satisfied were not afraid to say so at loud. Which told Maul that no one was afraid of being hauled from his bed for speaking what might be considered treason in other lands.

Slowly, he was putting together a picture in his head of how this land, so similar to many others on the surface, worked so differently. And he was discovering that he rather liked what he saw. Still, he was unprepared for Elspeth's question when Koric left him alone with the Princess in the small office.

She was sitting behind the desk today, with a stack of papers before her, and a pen in her hand. Her white uniform could have been the same one she had worn a week ago, and her sleek dark hair was confined with the same silver band. But Maul detected a hint of dark shadows under her eyes as she put aside her pen and looked at him gravely.

"Tell me," she asked abruptly, "what you know of Valdemar so far?"

Maul felt his brow crease as he thought about what he had heard before, and what he had observed the last few days. "I know that you are largely peaceful, with allies on all sides. I have also heard that those allies are being set upon from outside their borders." At her nod, he continued, "You have a small standing army, and a mercenary company based near your border, but you rarely use either one. You King is rumored to be in failing health—and you are the heir apparent."

He stopped there, and Elspeth waited a moment before giving him a small, unexpected smile. "Very good," she said. "I expect you have kept to what you actually _know_, without divulging what you _suspect_." Before Maul could answer that, she continued, "Now, I know you are at least somewhat familiar with the mind-magic that Heralds use. I don't need to know why or how; it's enough that you are. You are also an observant, resourceful individual. These are qualities I need desperately right now. So; listen carefully to my proposal."

"The Eastern Empire is enormous, and they are always looking to expand.For the last century and a half, they've been pushing against our borders, and those of our allies. When they first began the push, they nearly annexed Hardorn; the circumstances that prevented them from doing so were, shall we say, unique, and not likely to ever be repeated."

"Valdemar itself is surrounded by allies, but only the treaty with Rethwellan is likely to persist after my father dies. And he will die soon; there is nothing anyone can do about that." For a moment Elspeth's cool mask slipped, and Maul glimpsed the grief she felt at that fact. "There will be a delicate dance between us and the envoys of Karse, Iftel, and Hardorn, and I am certain that that is when the Empire will strike. It will not be a military maneuver; the Empire is too cautious for that. It will be something that will cause one or more of our allies to break away, to isolate each country as much as possible. Ideally, from the Empire's point of view, it will also throw at least one country into confusion and discord. That is the way the Empire has always worked, you see—spread as much strife as possible within the target, so that the Imperial troops are hailed as saviors rather than conquerors."

"They will have a hard time doing that in Valdemar," Maul said.

Elspeth's smile was pleased. "Yes, they will. And I do not believe we will be the initial target. However," her smile fell away, and her face was grave again, "there is nothing to prevent them from attempting such on one of our neighbors. I must do what I can to aid them. First, because such was promised, and second, because if the Empire succeeds, it gives Emperor Melles a gateway from which to campaign against Valdemar."

"And where does a lone mercenary and his partner figure into this?" Maul asked.

Again she smiled, and her gray eyes glinted like steel. "I want to hire you to work for me. Not Valdemar, not the Heralds—only me, Herald Elspeth. I want someone clever, resourceful, observant, and not opposed to dirty tricks to stall the Empire—not to stop them, but to slow them down during this critical period."

"You have only a limited time. Once I have been confirmed as Queen, our contract will end, and any progress you have made will have to be enough. If you get caught, I will do what I can for you, but please understand that I will likely be able to do nothing at all. You will be, effectively, on your own."

Maul drummed his fingers on his knee as he considered the Princess's offer. "And if I agree?" he asked. "I _am_ a mercenary—I won't do this for free."

"I wouldn't expect you to," she replied agreeably, and reached for a piece of paper in the stack to her left, pushing it across the desk to Maul. "This" she said, tapping the paper, "will be your payment if you accept. You may have it all in hard currency, or half in supplies, if you prefer. And this," she indicated another notation, "will be your bonus if you succeed."

It took Maul a moment to puzzle out the unfamiliar notation, and another to convert it to trade-weight. The result made him blink, and hastily re-check his figures.

"This…you have a lot of faith in me, Highness," he said.

"I don't know that you _will_ succeed," Elspeth replied quietly. "But I do know that you _can_. You see," and now the glint in her eyes could only be called mischievous, "my strongest Gift is Foresight."

Maul took a deep breath and laid his hand on the paper. "Where do I sign?"

_A/N: Yes, the plot sickens...er, thickens...anyway, reviews are like chocolate for my muse!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thanks everyone for being so patient while I wrote this. This was a difficult chapter to write for a lot of reasons, and RL issues--changing schedules, family drama, etc--kept interfering. I hope to have the next one up a lot faster. And remember--reviews are like chocolate and sunshine to my muse, and I treasure every one!_

Grall and Larryn waited patiently while Squeaky and Knuckles adjusted to the situation. The girl sat huddled on the floor, laughing, crying, and talking all at the same time. Respectfully, they refrained from "listening in" mentally on the conversation, and though they could not help but hear Squeaky's end of it, they ignored it politely.

Finally, she looked up, sniffing and wiping her face with the sleeve of her much-abused shirt. Her plain little face was shining with happiness and relief, so that for a moment she was beautiful even to the _kyree_ (whose standards of beauty were different from human notions.)

"Thank you," she said simply. "This—he's not dead, and you have no idea how much that means to me." Then she shook her head with a self-deprecating laugh. "Or maybe you do, since you were in my head. I don't know. And I hate to say this…but I have to leave. There's still someone running around in my partner's body, and I have to find him." She looked at Larryn. "You're the Mindhealer—do you think there's any way to get my Captain, um, home again?"

Larryn considered this question carefully before he answered. _:I do not know_, he was forced to admit._:The, er, transfer was accomplished by a very powerful Empath in a moment of desperation. The only reason your Captain isn't truly dead is because he has such a strong bond with you._

_:__**If**__ the possessing spirit could be dislodged, and Knuckles were to leave your head, it is quite likely that Knuckles would be drawn to his own body, precisely because it is __**his**__ body. But that would leave you with a disembodied, and likely quite angry, Empath on your hands._

Squeaky blanched at that thought. "If he's done this once, he might be able to do it again." She shook her head again. "I-I can't inflict that on anyone else. But I also can't let him keep walking around…" Her lips firmed as she locked eyes with Larryn.

"What if I kill the body?"

_:Hey! That's __**my**__ body you're talkin' about!_

Ignoring Knuckles' protest, she continued, "Will that send him, well, wherever he's supposed to be? Or will he hang around again, like if we'd only forced him out?"

The old _kyree_ cocked his head and again gave the question careful consideration. _:It may_, he acknowledged. _:Then again, it was death, or the fear of impending death, which allowed him to do what he did in the first place_. As Squeaky's shoulders slumped, he added, _:I am sorry I have no easy answers. Perhaps we should seek the advice of a human Empath. While there are many things about human and kyree minds that are similar, there are also many differences. Perhaps one of your own species would have more insight for you_.

Squeaky chewed her lip thoughtfully.

_:Makes sense to me_. Knuckles' mind-voice had a curious hollow quality to it, but otherwise sounded to her mind exactly like his real voice did to her ears, and now she detected a note of concern_. :But in the meantime—you need to eat somethin', Squeak. And it probably wouldn't hurt to catch a nap_.

"I do?" Both _kyree_ grinned at the apparent non-sequitor. "But …" Her voice trailed away and she blushed as her stomach gave an audible growl.

Grall answered her confusion. _:I think you do not realize how long you have been here,_ she said gently_. :You were in trance with Larryn for quite some time. Night has fallen outside_.

"Oh." Squeaky absorbed this information, then tried to jump to her feet, but swayed dizzily. "Oh! I have to go then, I can't let the trail get cold—"

_:Stay_, said Grall, as Knuckles commanded, _:No!_

_:Our scouts have been tracking him_, Grall assured the girl_. :We will not allow the trail to get cold. If you are going to follow, you must rest and eat_. She stepped forward, and nuzzled the scout's hand affectionately. _:Please. You will want to be at your strongest when you finally do confront him_.

Squeaky felt her lips curve in a genuine smile, and sat down again, stroking the _kyree's_ head. Grall accepted the caress readily, swiping her tongue over the girl's face.

"All right," Squeaky said as her stomach growled again. "What's for supper?"

After a meal of meat, mushrooms, and a branch loaded with summer berries that one of the younger kyree brought to her, Squeaky pulled off her armor, stacked it neatly, and stretched out in Grall's den, on the pile of dries grass and bracken that served as the kyree's bed. She yawned once, and was asleep almost instantly.

She woke with no memory of dreams. She stretched, and yawned, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and wondering vaguely if there was any breakfast available.

_:Feelin' better?_ Knuckles' voice seemed to lost much of the hollow quality of the previous evening.

"Much." She yawned again. "Hungry, though."

_:Hunger can be remedied_. Grall's voice was warm and amused. _:Am I right in assuming you were speaking to your mate?_

Squeaky nodded and reached for her armor, then recoiled a bit from the smell that wafted from the boiled leather. "Um…after breakfast…is there anyplace I can get a bath?"

_:Certainly_. Grall's jaws gaped in a _kyree _grin.

There were no fires in the kyree caves—and Squeaky had been warned not to try to light one herself—but there were enough mage-talented kyree to heat one of the little springs that welled up through the rock nearly to boiling, and anything that needed to be cooked was simmered in the mineral-rich water. Squeaky had eaten raw meat enough times to appreciate the arrangement.

The bathing pools were in another room—nowhere nearly as sophisticated as the Kalad'a'in, but good enough for the scout. She washed her clothes while she was at it, and spent the time while they dried oiling her armor to keep it supple and checking her weapons. Her bow had suffered somewhat for remaining strung, and some of her arrows needed re-fletching. Her mace only needed to be oiled against rust.

_:Why don't you use a sword?_ Grall asked as she watched with interest.

Squeaky grinned. "I'm strong for a girl, but I'm as likely to hit a man with the flat of a blade as the edge. I tend to lose my head in close combat, so Crake told Candy to give me a mace instead." She paused a moment. One-eyed Crake had died long before the Tears had split from the Black Company, in the same skirmish that had resulted in Knuckles' disfigurement. She had not liked him, but she had respected his skill—the old man was easily the best swordsman in the platoon, and he had reigned in his contempt for females long enough to teach Squeaky several dirty tricks meant to keep her alive in a pinch.

Squeaky held out the mace, showing Grall how the bulk of it was simply two bars of steel welded together at right angles. "See, it doesn't matter what part of this I hit my opponent with—if I hit him hard enough, he falls down."

_:Well, it helps that you're so short, you generally aim for the kneecaps_.

She giggled at Knuckles' dry humor, and repeated it to Grall.

Grall grinned, then cocked her head curiously and asked, _:Why did you become a mercenary in the first place. You've already said you don't like killing, you are polite and obviously well-educated—what led to such a violent path?_

Squeaky was silent for a moment.

_:You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to_, Knuckles said quietly.

"I know," she answered. "But…there's really no reason not to."

She put aside her weapons. Her clothes were still wet, so she figured there was time for a story.

"You know a little about human society," she said. "And from what I've seen, the nobility here isn't too different form the world I grew up in."

"On the shores of the Sea of Torment, the Jewel Cities have a loose confederation. The oldest and most important of the Jewel Cities is Opal. I was born Tara Lellanier of House Lellanier, one of Opal's oldest families."

"Not that we were very important, anymore. We still had titles and lands and a certain amount of wealth, but the Lady was the Empress now, and she allowed very little autonomy to her vassals, so we had very little actual power. But I didn't know that. All I knew was that I had pretty clothes, and my own mare and a brother who would take me with him when he went hunting. I adored my brother and if I didn't love my parents, it was because I didn't see much of them. I think I disappointed them, a little. I never learned how to socialize properly, to show myself off to the best advantage. I didn't like parties, I would rather read or go hunting with Andrean. Anyway…"

Squeaky rested her chin on her hands and stared into the distance at old memories. "My mother died when I was about ten—some fever of some sort, I think. It was quick—I hardly knew she was sick, and then she was gone. Father was killed a few years later, during a very hot summer. There was no rain for so long, people were going mad with the heat. He was trying to stop some of his tenants from rioting, and they turned on him."

"So the estate and the titles came to my brother." Squeaky sighed sadly. "And something happened. I don't know what. I just knew that suddenly he never had time for me anymore, and when I saw him he always looked angry. Most of the servants were sent away, and we even sold most of the horses. I didn't know we were suddenly poor—I just knew that everything had changed and I had no idea why."

"Then one day Andrean sat me down and told me he'd solved everything. He'd found a husband for me. Wonderful, I thought. That was all I ever expected, you see—to live in my father's house until I got married and went to someone else's."

She heard a mental snort. _:You'd have been wasted on a "proper marriage."_

"You be still. Anyway, everything was going well. Andrean held a few small parties, began to socialize again. I even got a new dress made for the betrothal feast. And then—everything came crashing down again."

She had to stop as the memories became painful again. "The night of the betrothal feast," she forced herself to say, "my intended husband was found murdered. Poisoned. And I was blamed for it."

Grall whined in sympathy. _:You didn't do it, of course_.

Squeaky shook her head. "No, I didn't. But I was the first one blamed. And…I couldn't stand the thought of a trial, of all those people staring at me, thinking I'd murdered someone. So when my brother suggested a trial-by-proxy, I agreed. I was kept under house arrest for three days. Then my brother came to tell me that the Council had found me guilty."

_:Guilty!_ The outrage in the kyree's voice was so plain that Squeaky actually managed a wan smile. _:How did that happen?_

She shrugged. "I was framed, obviously. I still don't know all the details…although I do know who was behind it." She shook her head, dispelling speculation. "Andrean told me he was trying to get the sentence commuted from death to imprisonment and I…I couldn't stand it."

"See, when they put away a noble, they lock you in a room and seal it up so that the only things that go in are your meals and the only things that go out are your slop jars." Grall could clearly hear the touch of hysteria in the girl's voice that the thought provoked. "There was some precedent, apparently—a streak of madness that popped up on my mother's side of the family now and then. They put Lady Imogene away for murdering her husband, and they were going to do the same to me."

She was shivering now, despite the years in between then and now.

_:Easy Squeak_, Knuckles soothed. _:It was a long time ago. It's not here. It didn't happen, and it's not gonna happen_.

Squeaky took slow, deliberate breaths as Grall licked her hand. "I know. I know. It's just…I knew I wasn't crazy, I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, and I couldn't stand the idea of being put away. So that night I ran away. The old bedsheets-out-the-window trick, favored by every damsel in distress for the last four hundred years. I made it to the stable before the guards could catch me, and once I was on Dancer, nobody had a chance of catching me. But once I was gone, I realized my options were kind of…limited." Her voice reflected her chagrin over her own naiveté.

"But I'd heard about the Black Company, how they always completed whatever job they were hired for, and I thought that that at least would be an honest way to earn a living. I had no idea if they even took girls or not, and I think they almost didn't, except that I could already shoot and track. It was rough though, and a couple of times I almost quit and went back to throw myself on the Council's mercy. But Knuckles was in my squad, and he always tried to make sure nobody hassled me too much. And after a while I—I actually had friends. I'd never had friends before. Suddenly, I had a hundred brothers, and we all took care of each other. I liked that, even of I didn't always enjoy what we had to do."

She sighed. "And then the Lady's lieutenants betrayed the Company, and then the Old Company—the ones that had actually been there when the Lady first hired them—just disappeared from the battlefield, and the Tears of Blood split because we sure didn't want to stay with the Lady. And Knuckles was voted Captain, and how could I leave then? I—I was already in love with him, though I think I was the last one to realize it."

She ignored Knuckles' mental snicker. "So there it is—the short version, anyway. I suppose I could do something else, since there's nobody here who knows or cares about where I came from, but I can't imagine leaving the Tears. And—I'm good at what I do. I'm a darn good scout, I'm learning tactics faster than I ever thought I could, and if I'm not very useful as a spear-carrier, that's why Knuckles made me standard bearer, 'cause with a good bow I can hit anything I can see. Before the Tears came here, I had a whole hand-picked squad I was giving special training, the best of the riders and scouts. And even if I knew I had somewhere else to go, I couldn't yet. We're still trying to get the money and recruits we need to be a real company again, and I couldn't abandon my brothers when they need me."

As Squeaky pulled on her clothes, Grall said wonderingly, _:I've never heard of those places. Yet…they're real. You…are from farther away than I realized_.

The scout smiled crookedly at the _kyree_. "I know. It was magic that brought us here, some stupid accident, and I don't mind because we'd all be dead if it hadn't. But that's a story for another day," she added, forestalling the _kyree's_ questions. "Right now, suppose we try to pick up this—" she floundered for a moment, searching for an appropriate term, and settled on something from a half-remembered story of her childhood. "This _skinwalker's_ trail?"

* * *

The skinwalker's name was Jaden Verra. He swallowed his ale and smiled at the server who poured him another mug. The girl could not quite suppress a shudder, and hurried away as quickly as possible. Jaden's smile grew wider. This was a new sensation for him; no one had ever been intimidated by him before—and Jaden Verra reveled in it.

All of his life, he'd been undersized, taunted by his peers and bullied by his brothers. He had extracted a measure of revenge after he had discovered he could make people feel what he wanted them to—but the effort tired him, and his brothers had been quick to capitalize on that fact. The caravan looting had been their idea, and all three of them had profited from it. Yet still, they'd treated him like a plague-bearer.

He chuckled to himself. His brothers had been the first people to see him in his new body. He'd discovered his new strength by accident, when Stef had tried to push him around as usual—and he'd pushed back. Now, neither one of them would ever push him around again, or laugh at him, or treat him like a worthless, misbegotten piece of trash. Ever.

He caught the free hand of the serving girl as she passed and drew her in close. She squeaked, and the hand holding the pitcher shook with fear.

"C-can I help you, sir?" she stuttered.

"Sure you can," Jaden said. "What's your price for a little company tonight?"

The terrified girl tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, enjoying the way the blood drained from her face as she gasped with pain. "I—I don't do that," she said. "If you want, I can send someone else—"

"You're a liar," Jaden told her. "And I don't _want_ anyone else right now." There was a glint in his steel-grey eyes that was not quite sane, and the girl renewed her attempts free herself from the hand clamped like a vise around her wrist. That glint frightened her far more than the scars on his face.

A shadow fell across the table, and she almost wept with relief as the tavern's peacekeeper—an ex-mercenary who called himself Morgon—interrupted the scene.

"Sir," Morgon said pleasantly, "I suggest you let the lady go."

Jaden looked up at the man who loomed over him, and grudgingly released the girl's hand. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to make any trouble."

Morgon folded his arms and glowered at the mercenary. "If you're looking for company," he said, "There's a brothel three doors up the road. Leave the girls here alone."

Jaden's smile never faltered, but his eyes glittered. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, and finished his ale in a single swallow. He stood, and as Morgon watched warily, dropped his silver on the table, including a generous tip. "Which direction was that brothel?" he asked.

Morgon relaxed a little. "Out the door and to your right," he said gruffly.

Jaden nodded politely and headed for the door. Morgon watched him leave, glad to see the back of him.

That night after close, Kacie finished sweeping the tavern floor and took a moment to lean against her broom.

"Tired, lass?"

She mustered up a smile for Morgon. "Always. But I just need to fill the water barrel, and then I can go home."

"You want an escort?"

She hesitated a moment, then reluctantly nodded. "If you don't mind. I know you're tired, too—but I get the creeps every time I think about that guy."

Morgon nodded and leaned wearily against the doorframe. "All right, then," he said. "Just poke me awake when you're ready."

Kacie put away her broom and collected the water bucket. The rain barrel was just outside the kitchen door where it would catch the water that dripped from the eaves, so she didn't have far to go. Nevertheless, she started at every noise and shadow.

She dipped her bucket into the dark water. Another noise startled her, and she whirled, dropping her bucket into the barrel, then breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the stray cat that sat casually nearby.

"Oh, you horrid old moggie!" she said. "Go on, now—shoo!" She took a step toward the cat, and it fled silently. Kacie watched it go, and then turned back to the rain barrel, annoyed with herself for dropping the bucket. She pushed her sleeves up and stood on tiptoe to lean over the barrel and fish around.

Suddenly a hard shove sent her forward, and her startled cry was swallowed by the water that closed briefly over her head. A moment later, a large hand grabbed her roughly by the blouse and pulled her out—and another hand clamped firmly over her mouth and nose. Kacie struggled desperately, clawing at the hand that was cutting off her air, but her struggles made little impression upon her attacker. Her brain gibbered with sheer mindless fear as her lungs burned, and her vision blurred until she saw only gray shot with tiny shooting stars.

And then she succumbed to unconsciousness, and saw nothing at all.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: First, my apologies for taking so long to get this one right, but props to my best brother Joe for getting me back on track with it. Also to Daniel and Joe both for letting me borrow their characters, and to Ms. Lackey for letting me set them in her rich and varied world._

Shestryl flew high, and far in advance of the growing company. Under One's leadership, there were now thirty young men from six different tribes traveling in four squads. The boy from Gray Wolf, Reik, walked with One, of course; Darius had the company of another Healer, and Autumn was in charge of the scouts. Neither sibling had elected to return to Errold's Grove; instead they continued to accompany the black giant as he swept through the North.

It was Shestryl's job, as the only one with wings, to scout ahead a day's flight, to spy out other villages as well as any problems that might hamper the company's travel. The plan—such as it was—was to travel until they hit the sea, and then loop east and head south again in a broad arc. When they reached the mountains again, One figured, they would have plenty of warriors to fill out the company ranks.

As she flew, Shestryl thought that halfway point might be very near. Was it just her imagination, or was that the sea glittering like garnets in the last rays of the sun? Though her wings were getting tired, she found a convenient thermal and glided the last few miles, until she burst through a flock of noisy gulls and caught the scent of brine.

Well, this little strand of beach would be an excellent place to spend the night before heading back to the company. She had found a little horseshoe of a bay, with granite escarpments standing protectively on either side. She had also found a ship.

Intrigued, Shestryl circled, slipping into a lower stratum as her sharp eyes examined the vessel. It was not a product of the locals, she was certain. The sea-dwelling tribes ran to large outriggers or small single-sailed vessels meant for hugging the coast. This ship was long and narrow, with a deep keel and what seemed like hundred of sails billowing in the cold bitter wind. It reminded Shestryl of the ships of the Haileigh, but there was a subtle difference in design. Not something she could quite put a claw on, though the myriad sails were certainly part of it. And it was, of course, on the wrong side of the world. Driven by her powerful curiosity, Shestryl glided lower.

It wasn't until she saw the scrambling figures swarming on the forecastle that she realized she might have been just a trifle foolish. Cursing her own impetuousness, she wheeled in the air and headed toward the beach. Hadn't One warned them all about the invaders that were threatening the North? Whatever had made her think that a large flying predator wouldn't look like a threat to them?

There was a distant report that echoed across the water, and then a fiery pain burned through Shestryl's right wing. She squawked, a very undignified sound, as she wobbled in her flight and flailed for purchase against the air.

Another sharp report, and then a third. She felt the stir in the air as the second shot missed her, but then something hit her low in her chest, just below the keel. It burned, a tiny ball of fire that seemed to drive all of the air from her lungs. Her right wing didn't want to work properly, and her eyes blurred with pain as she blundered low over the little beach. Her last thought as she saw the white sands rushing to meet her, was a heartfelt thanks to the Lady that it wasn't water.

Shestryl woke slowly and uncomfortably. For several minutes she struggled instinctively against the bonds that held her, until the burning pain in her chest sparked sense into her brain. She stopped struggling, and opened her eyes.

She was still on the beach, under the cover of a hastily erected oilcloth tent. But she couldn't stand up because both front and back legs had been chained with heavy iron chains that rattled and clanked as she managed to get herself into a reclining position. The effort woke the pain in her chest, and she looked down to see more dark blood staining the sand beneath her. Her wings had not been bound, but flopped free. She tried to fold them across her back. The left one cooperated, but the right one drooped, and she winced as she felt broken bones grate against each other.

"Stupid griffon," she muttered to herself. "Got yourself caught, didn't you?" She flickered her tongue over her beak and tasted blood. Well, she'd apparently got some of her own back. With a good bit of strain, she managed to get one of her front talons up to groom it, and tasted more blood. Well, whoever it had been, she hoped she'd killed him. She shook her head, nearly fell over again as dizziness overwhelmed her, and felt the growling in her stomach that warned her she need to eat, and soon.

As if thoughts granted wishes, a figure shadowed against the gloaming popped around the corner of the tent, carrying a bucket that smelled of fish. Seeing she was awake, the man's eyes widened, and he hastily threw the bucket down and backed away, holding one hand out as if to ward her off, and babbling in some outlandish tongue. Shestryl couldn't resist—she puffed out her feathers and shrieked a griffon's battle cry, snapping her beak at him. The poor fellow lost all composure, turning and running. He was quickly lost to Shestryl's sight, but she could hear him screaming, surely of how the "monster" had awakened. Chuckling, she turned her attention to the bucket. It was mostly fish heads and guts—certainly not her preferred food, and not nearly enough of it, but far better than nothing. It took her only moments to devour the whole bucket.

It was getting dark on the beach, and was even darker in the tent, but Shestryl managed, with a good bit of twisting, to get a good look at the manacles that chained her legs. They were clumsy, having obviously been designed for humans, and—oh, this was interesting! She tested the heavy steel pin that held them shut, and found that it was not welded, but simply bent so that it would not slip out. She chuckled quietly to herself. Obviously they thought she was simply a dumb animal.

But even if she could get the pins out, she wasn't going anywhere quickly. The wound on her chest was still oozing blood, and unless her wing healed, she couldn't fly. They obviously thought she was enough of a curiosity to keep alive, but she'd bet that any real trouble from her would result in a swift and likely painful death. On the other hand, she certainly didn't want to spend the rest of her life in a cage dining on fish scraps.

She was weary now; her dinner had not been very nourishing, and her body was trying to heal. Since there was nothing else to be done for now, Shestryl settled into the sand, tucked her head under her good wing, and went to sleep.

* * *

She was late. Darius brooded over that fact as he helped make camp, setting up the tent he shared with the other healer. They were clever little tents—Topper had been as good as his word, improving the design until they were both snug and portable. They slept only two people, but that made for snug sleeping. Darius shared his with the other Healer, a serene young woman from Black Bear. She had taken one long look at him, nodded, and laid her bedroll next to his. Autumn had laughed herself silly at that. _She_ had no lack of nighttime company—the locals might consider her a Man-souled woman, but Topper and One didn't consider themselves bound by local custom in that regard.

But it was not the lack of companionable sleeping that worried him tonight. Shestryl was late returning from her scouting mission. Not very late—but she generally tried to be back before dark. The scouts would have a meal ready for her, as she was always ravenous after such an extended effort. While she ate, she would fill One in on anything she had seen, Darius would check her for any signs of strain, and then she would sleep deeply until the next morning.

But it was full dark now, and though he kept his ears open for the rush of wings, there were only the usual sounds of the night.

The squads were scattered about the woods, each with their own fire, to avoid damaging the forest too much. It also, in One's estimation, left them less vulnerable—vulnerable to what, he would not say. None of the eight-man squads were out of earshot of the others, and they all had their own particular calls of identification. One had also made certain to scatter members of the same tribe into different squads. This had the dual effect of bringing members of different tribes together, and of fostering unity between squads. But one of the fires was bigger than the others, and this was where Darius eventually found One staring into the flames.

"Have you eaten?"

One nodded without taking his eyes from the cheerful glow of the fire. "Reik brought me something," he replied.

"Good." Darius took a deep breath, then said in Valdemaran, "How long do you want to wait for her?"

One considered that question soberly. "We can't stay here," he said finally. "The land won't support thirty people for very long. I'll have to send your sister's scouts farther ahead than usual. And if she's only late, she'll find us easily."

"And if she's not?" Darius's voice was very soft. "What are we going to do about it?"

One turned his head to look the Healer in the eye. "We'll find her."

* * *

Shestryl woke up stiff, painful, and cranky. Dragging footsteps over the sand heralded the arrival of her breakfast, and she resigned herself to more fish guts. But this time the delivery was not handled by one of the invaders, but by a native woman hobbled by the chain between her ankles. Bruises on her face, set in an expression of grim resignation, testified to the callousness of her captors, and Shestryl found herself bristling at the way so-called "civilized" humans still treated each other. The woman's steps became more reluctant as she approached the sagging tent. But the designs on her tattered vest were still plain to the griffon's sharp eyes.

"Greetings, woman of the Shoson," Shestryl said quietly in the Northern tongue. "I am Shestryl of the Silver Griffons."

The woman's reaction was startling. Her head snapped up, and her eyes widened as her mouth dropped open in astonishment. After a moment, she looked over her shoulder, and then responded in an undertone, "It has been many years since the Sliver Griffon tribe flew the Northern skies."

Shestryl allowed her beak to gape in a gryph-grin. "Well, this particular griffon is flying nowhere at the moment. What is your name? And would you please put the bucket where I can reach it," she added when the woman came no closer. "I'm _hungry_!"

"Forgive me." Slightly abashed, the woman hurried forward and set the bucket in front of Shestryl, who sighed. More offal. At least it was from a deer this time, and not fish. "I am Keri, of the Shoson." Her expression darkened. "My husband was the chief of the Shoson until he was killed by the Garadi, the invaders in their boats. He was a fine warrior, and a good man, until he was slain without honor along with all the rest of our men."

"_All_ of them?" Shestryl paused in her breakfast, feeling her feathers rise with alarm.

Keri nodded. "And a few of the women who dared to take up arrows, and—" Her voice faltered; she took a deep breath and managed to continue. "And all of the children they deemed to young to be useful." Grief drew a veil over her weathered face for a moment.

Shestryl had to pant to control the urge she felt to rip her way out of her bonds and personally shred the bastards with her claws. Growling, she vented her rapidly growing anger on the helpless entrails, well aware that she was wasting precious energy but unable to help herself. Swallowing the last of the mess, she groomed herself as well as she could while Keri sat on the rocky beach in front of her.

"Sky-lady," Keri said gently, "be careful. You are bleeding again."

Shestryl looked down and saw the fresh blood staining the ground beneath her and growled again. "My _trond'i'irn_ is some days behind me," she said by way of explanation. "My Healer."

Keri cocked her head. "You are expecting the rest of your tribe?"

Griffons do not shrug very well, but Shestryl tried. "I suppose the Tears of Blood are my tribe now," she said. "We—"

Keri straightened, her eyes lighting with sudden hope. "The Tears of Blood!" she exclaimed. "I had a dream," she whispered, and scooted closer to Shestryl, lowering her voice to barely a whisper.

"The Shoson showed himself to me, taking me beneath the waves. He showed me where two shadows met. One fought with iron and flames, and one dripped blood from a golden trident. Shoson told me to be ready, that when the herald of the golden shadow arrived, I would have to be strong and clever to help it prevail. But first," she laid a surprisingly gentle hand on Shestryl's neck, "please allow me to examine your wound. The weapons of the Garadi leave wounds that are slow to heal and prone to fester, especially if the ball remains."

"The ball?"

"Their weapons throw balls of soft lead with more force than an arrow, and they often lodge in the body. I have removed many from the women and children who remain. But their weapons are not as terrible as their creatures. Forgive me, griffon-lady. Up close there is no comparison, but when I first saw you—" She shrugged and cast her eyes down for a moment. "I will be as gentle as I can, and then I will pack it with a healing poultice, the secret of which I have refused to share with the Garadi."

Shestryl cocked her head curiously. "Will they allow you to do that?"

Keri's chin tilted upward, and Shestryl saw that not all of the pride had been beaten out of her. "They cannot stop me."

* * *

It was the second night, the second camp, and Shestryl still had not come back. Darius could maintain his Healer's mask around the Northerners, but it failed when he was alone with One, Topper, and his sister. Worry cramped his stomach, and he had a feeling he'd be resorting to his own soothing herbs before very much longer.

One's tent was not one of the snug little two-man tents everyone else was issued. For one thing, he simply wouldn't fit comfortably in one of those even by himself. For another, Shestryl preferred to sleep with him and Topper. And finally, he needed the extra space for meetings like this one.

Reik, the boy from Gray Wolf who had become One's protégé, sat soberly next to One, turning the carved lion One had given him over and over in his hands. Topper sat on the other side of the black man, chewing on a hangnail and scowling. Autumn chewed her lip worriedly. One himself sat perfectly still, his face like carved obsidian.

As soon as Darius settled himself on the canvas floor, Autumn started to speak.

"My scouts pushed themselves today, and we haven't seen any sign of her. Which is a good sign, because if there was going to be any sign of her at all, it would be her body, since flying creatures don't leave tracks." She paused to take a breath, looking to One for his reaction. He only nodded gravely, as if her news was entirely expected.

"Anyway," she continued, "the fact that we haven't found anything is also a bad sign, because it means we still only have a general idea of where she went. A griffon can cover a lot of territory in a day's flight, and we figure she could be anywhere between here and the northern coast. That's a lot of ground to investigate. If she veered even a little out of our path—well, there's no guarantee we'd ever find her at all."

There was silence for a moment, and Darius closed his eyes against the pain that blossomed in his chest when he thought of never seeing the vivacious griffon again. From the faces of the others, they felt much the same way.

Reik looked up, his forehead creased in thought. "There might be a way to find her path," he said thoughtfully. "Something I saw Teniff do once when our hunters were lost in a winter storm that came early. I do not know if I _can_ do it," he warned as hope rose, "but I will try. Maybe One can help me."

One smiled at the boy. "What do you need?" he asked.

"Um…a feather or something else from her body. A leather thong and a northstone. And One will have to help me with the prayers."

"What's a northstone?" Topper asked.

"A lodestone," Autumn translated. "You can use mine," she told Reik.

"I have a few feathers saved," Darius said. "In case she lost one and needed it imped back in."

"And I will help you find the words," One agreed. "Tonight. Before any more time is lost."

It was hot and dark and smoky in the tent. Darius sneezed as the herbs burning in the wide earthen bowl sent another cloud of pungent smoke into his face. On the other side of the bowl, Reik frowned in concentration as he affixed one of Shestryl's primaries midway down the narrow strip of leather he held, then tied one end to the lodestone Autumn handed him. Years ago, she had painted one end red, and now as the boy held the stone over the brazier, Darius saw it quiver and swing slowly at the end of the thong until the red end pointed north. Reik nodded to One, and the two of them began a low chant.

They were each chanting in their native tongue, Darius realized, yet their rhythm was the same, and the two voices blended seamlessly, with Reik's high clear soprano bolstered by One's bass rumble. The smoke billowed suddenly from the bowl, hiding the stone and feather for a moment as Darius stifled another sneeze. As the cloud cleared, Darius looked up through watering eyes and saw the feather quiver. A tremor ran through the thong, and the stone at the end trembled. Darius held his breath as the red end swung gently, and then stopped, a bit west of true north.

The chant ceased suddenly, leaving Darius' ears ringing. Reik grinned broadly, and handed the thong to Autumn. "She is alive. The stone will point to where she is now."

The scout took the thong carefully, and looked at Darius. "Got any of those stay-awake teas you healers brew for sentries?" she asked. "'Cause I'm setting out tonight."

* * *

The poultice had indeed eased the pain, but Shestryl was starting to feel a bit desperate. She could feel herself weakening from the lack of decent food and her grounded condition. Keri had been able to do nothing about her broken wing, and Shestryl was afraid that even if she slipped her bonds, she wouldn't get far before the Garadi, as Keri had called them, took her down again. She wished Darius were there with his Healing skills. She wished she had been able to take Autumn with her. She wished fervently for One and Topper, her "featherless brothers."

But she was able to learn much about the invaders, both from Keri and from observation. They were a good-looking people, as near as Shestryl could judge. Tall and strong-bodied, with skin the color of polished pecan wood. Their hair—ranging from blond to red—tended to curl, and was wound around colored cords so that it fell past their shoulders in a brilliant display of barbaric beauty.

But their handsome faces bore a stamp of arrogance, and their brutality was not limited to the natives they had captured. It quickly became apparent to Shestryl that there was a rigid hierarchy among the Garadi, enforced with the kind of casual violence that made the griffon's stomach churn. She could not see much of their activities—the rude canvas shelter faced the forest, not the main Garadi encampment—but what she did see was enough to convince her that Vancor and the Star-Eyed would both be perfectly happy to see them driven back to wherever they came from. Frustrated by her lack of power to _do something_, all she could do was watch, and remember, and hope she didn't die here before the Tears managed to find her.

Despite that, she managed to retain courage. She had perfect confidence in One's ability to keep his company on track, and in his determination to retrieve her. She had an ally in Keri, and while she breathed there was hope. She managed to retain that courage until the third day of her captivity, when she finally saw the "creatures" that Keri had mentioned.

They came flying in from the forest, three of them, landing on the little strip of beach with a flurry of greasy feathers. Immediately, Garadi began dragging animal corpses to their landing spot, and the beasts pounced on them and began shredding them with no ceremony at all.

Superficially, they did resemble griffons. Winged and powerful, with raptorial beaks and talons meant to hold and tear. But their eyes held a cunning cruelty with none of a griffon's intelligence or humor. They fought amongst themselves for the choicest morsels, ripping and snapping at each other with jagged claws and hooked beaks. Watching them, Shestryl felt a cold fear grip her heart, and she huddled mute in the meager shelter of the canvas tent. No, they were not griffons. But every griffon was taught about the griffon-killers, bred and loosed only to destroy. Though none had been seen since the end of the Mage Wars millenia ago, every griffon knew about _makk'ar_.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Sorry it's been so long...four months since I updated! Rest assured, I am not done with these characters, and I intend to finish what i started. As usual, I do not own the setting; that's Ms. Lackey's creation. Maul is Brandon's alter-ego, No is Dave's. Thanks to both for letting me use them._

"What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

The scowl on the supply sergeant's face would have cowed most men, but the stolid teamster only shrugged. "How'm I supposed to know?" he returned. "I don't write the orders, I just drive the engine."

The steam car was loaded with boxes and bales of wool and linen—all of it precisely the wrong weight and color for Imperial uniforms, and besides, the supply sergeant had been expecting grain. "Look, I've got a thousand men bivouacked here, and nothing to feed them, except those barrels of stinking fish that were delivered last week!" The sergeant shuddered. Fish was all right, but that pickled stuff from the coast—ugh! He'd take the shoe leather that passed for field rations any day.

"So feed 'em fish," retorted the teamster. "Now, can I unload, or am I gonna have to take it all the way back to the depot?"

The supply sergeant's face grew red as he examined the signature on the bottom of the order. Every supply officer in the army knew Captain Goswyn was an idiot, but this was just too much! "All right," he growled, and scrawled his signature beneath Goswyn's. "Corporal! Round up a detail to unload the car," he ordered. Leaving the details in his underling's capable hands, the sergeant stumped to his office and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. Mistakes like this simply were not supposed to happen in the army, and by the Hundred Little Gods, someone was going to hear about it!

* * *

Maul checked the wards, found them still intact, slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. He nodded to No and sat on the edge of the bed to wait while the third person in the room finished her current task. It took only a couple of moments for her to wipe the end of her pen, sit back with a sigh, and rub her cramped hands.

"Well, that's the last of that lot," she said.

Maul reached out and plucked the sheet of paper from her desk. It was heavy, and the Imperial Wolf Crown watermarked in the upper corner, as well as the gold threads around the borders, marked it as having been filched from the stock earmarked for official Imperial business. The ink, too, was special, glittering faintly with tiny flecks of gold. "What have we done this time?" he asked.

Bard Lynne grinned at him, wrinkling her nose. "Replaced the good steel for the weaponsmiths with a load of inferior stuff meant for less exacting uses. They might catch it right away, which will mean yet another delay while it's replaced—or they might not, until they try to use it, and it breaks before it tempers."

Maul nodded. "All right, I'll see it gets where it's going." He handed the paper back to Lynne, who folded it and sealed it with a copy of the Imperial seal. Not the one that marked it as coming from the Emperor's own hand, unfortunately; they couldn't duplicate that one. But lesser Imperial orders, oh, yes, they could forge those quite easily.

Maul would steal the dispatches as they went out and bring them to Lynne. Lynne would forge a similar, but different order, one that would cause as much inconvenience for the Imperials as possible, and then Maul would replace the original with the forgery. The three of them were quietly causing a great deal of confusion for the Imperials.

"We won't be able to get away with this much longer," he warned.

"I know," she sighed a bit ruefully. "I figure we've got maybe another week before we either pull out, or figure out something else."

Careful assassinations were the only other option Maul could think of, but he didn't want to say that to Lynne, so he merely shrugged.

As he left again, threading his way through the press of people that crowded the common room of the inn, he reflected that while a Bard would certainly not have been his choice of a partner ion this venture, Elspeth had been wiser than he knew. That day in her office, he had barely put pen to paper when there was a tap on the door…

* * *

At Elspeth's invitation, it swung open, and Maul glanced over his shoulder—and had to stifle a groan. He had been in Valdemar long enough to know what that scarlet costume meant.

"Your Highness," the bard said in greeting as she bowed deeply. Then she addressed Maul. "And you must be Maul." She bowed again, and offered her hand in greeting.

Everything about her was long and thin. Her tall body seemed all angles under flamboyant scarlet silk, a scarecrow animated by mischief and magic. Her face was thin as well, with a long nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once. Maul figured that was probably the result of the mischievous humor that glinted in her hazel eyes. Those eyes were half-hidden by the mass of dark curls that insisted on flopping into her face, and were repeatedly pushed back by a large hand with long clever fingers. She was altogether too tall and thin and sharp for beauty, but she nevertheless radiated an air of complete confidence and charm.

And then there was her voice. As if to apologize for constructing her out of spare parts, whatever god had fashioned her had given her a voice that was more than compensation. It was low and rich, with harmonics that sent involuntary shivers down Maul's spine. It was a voice that would haunt old dreams and spin new ones, a voice that would deliver a reverent hymn, a sweet love song, or a bold tavern ditty with equal conviction.

"I've heard so much about you since your rather…precipitous arrival in Haven," she was saying. "Including no less than a dozen overheated ballads from students who are convinced they're the next Bard Stephen."

It was easy to see why, she mused. He was certainly a striking figure—tall, with red hair worn longer than many women wore theirs. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his sober clothing, and his eyes were the sharp, clear green of emeralds.

Maul stole a glance at Elspeth. Her serene expression had changed not a hair, but he could actually feel her amusement. "And have you written one of your own yet?" he retorted, briefly clasping the bard's hand and noting the calluses on her palms and fingertips.

"Oh, not yet," she replied with a grin. "I did learn a few things from the career of my most infamous ancestor, and one of those was to always get the facts straight before setting pen to paper."

Maul had no idea what she was talking about, but Elspeth chose that moment to interrupt.

"Maul," she said, "this is Bard Lynne. She is my current expert on the Imperials. She speaks the language fluently, and has several times acted as my agent in the Empire. I have asked her to work with you, to help establish you across the border and teach you the language."

Maul frowned. "We'll never learn fast enough to pass as natives—"

"No," Elspeth agreed, "and I don't expect you to. So Lynne has a different idea."

"You need a reason to be in the Empire, or at least an excuse," Lynne said. "One that won't have the Imperial soldiers eject you on principle when things start to go wrong for them. It happens that I have an Imperial identity already, complete with the best identification money can buy. You have your Guild tags, and are in good standing with the Guild. It wouldn't be at all surprising for 'Trader Linnet' to hire a pair of outland mercs as bodyguards when she's scouting for new business opportunities."

"Huh." Maul thought about that for a moment. "That…would likely work." He thought about it for a moment more, the pen forgotten in his hand. "You've talked about this before," he stated.

Elspeth nodded. "For several months, actually," she said. "But until now, there was no one I was willing to send with Lynne. There are few who have the skills I need; fewer of them are trustworthy. Of the ones I can trust, absolutely all of them are needed more where they are at. I had nearly given up hope of finding someone—until your arrival."

Maul raised a cynical eyebrow. "And how do you know you can trust me?" he asked with a thin smile.

"Because Sasha would not have carried you otherwise," was Elspeth's reply.

And there it was again. What were these Companions, to inspire such perfect trust in their judgment? What really annoyed Maul was that, in this case at least, they were absolutely right. He had never violated his given word, and he would not do so now. Elspeth could trust that he would do his best to keep the Empire too busy to concentrate on Valdemar's allies. But how had they known that? The idea that these creatures could see so easily through him made Maul profoundly uneasy.

* * *

But right now he was far away from Valdemar and its Companions, moving quickly through the streets of Lyannis to the hostel used by Imperial couriers traveling this way. It seemed strange to him, that an Empire so magically sophisticated would rely on such old-fashioned methods for passing messages, but according to Lynne, no one in the Empire wanted a repeat of the near-disaster 150 years ago when something she referred to as "Mage Storms" had swept through the Empire, breaking every spell they encountered, changing people and animals into monsters and sending nodes rogue. Much of the infrastructure of the Empire had collapsed; only the swift and decisive actions of then-heir Melles had kept the populace from complete revolt. Melles was now _Emperor_ Melles…and the fact that he had held his throne for a century and a half sent chills down Maul's spine. It was a situation all too reminiscent of the beautiful, treacherous Lady…

It was a simple matter to replace the original with the forgery Lynne had created, and then melt back into the night. He was tired, and looking forward to a few hours of rest. It was hard work, accompanying "Linnet" on her rounds of merchant stalls and houses, guarding her back as she talked with buyers and suppliers, and then staying up half the night to accomplish his clandestine goals. For that matter, Lynne and No were working equally hard; Lynne was shorting herself on sleep to actually write out the forgeries, and No was assuming half of the guard duties that would have been Maul's.

Tired he might have been, but he was still alert as ever, and so he was aware of the commotion long before he rounded the final turn. The clash of arms and shouts of combat were all too familiar, and he instinctively kept to the shadows even as he quickened his pace, hurrying toward the inn where he and Lynne and No had stayed that night.

His way was blocked by the cluster of people crowded into the street; most of the inn's guests, it looked like, herded into a knot by soldiers in Imperial uniform. The front door of the inn was open, as well as the kitchen entrance, and Maul glimpsed more uniforms milling inside. From inside, he could hear shouts and orders in the Imperial tongue, the clash of metal on metal, and the occasional cry of pain…and rising above the excited conversation in the street, No's eerie Nyueng Bao battle-song.

Quickly, Maul assessed his options, then sank into the shadows of an alley long enough to weave a simple illusion. Now to the casual glance he was garbed in an Imperial uniform, and the growing crowd made way for him as he shoved through them and sprinted into the inn.

Once inside he dropped the illusion. Anger and fear for his companions made the dark power stir beneath his skin; Maul called it forward as he drew his paired swords and let it course down the blades, making them glow with a pale green witch-fire.

An Imperial soldier turned; Maul saw his eyes widen beneath his helmet at the sight that confronted him. Before the man could even bring his own blade up in defense, Maul skewered him. The witch-fire was drawn into the wound, absorbed by his opponent—and the soldier dropped, writhing in agony. Maul leaped over him and began hacking his way up the stairs, where No's battle-song still wove an atonal tapestry beneath and around the sounds of battle.

Each blow he struck drained him of a fraction of the power that festered within him…but each moment he was delayed only increased his anger, adding to the reservoir. His short swords were brutally efficient in the confines of the inn, and soldiers fell like wheat before the scythe. Not all of them died, but the witch-fire that coursed through their bodies bound their limbs with agony far beyond that of the wounds Maul's blades inflicted. They fell, jerking and twitching, unable even to cry out, and Maul pressed on upwards.

The last soldier fell, leaving the stairs clear, and Maul bounded over the last two risers to be confronted with the sight of No backed into a corner by Imperial soldiers. A scatter of bodies lay about the hall, all of them bearing the deep gashes of Slender Reed. But the little man's skill was hampered by the size of his weapon in the tight quarters, and Maul could see that his friend was limping from a deep wound in his leg, and bleeding in dozen more places. Still, his throat quivered as his battle song continued unabated, the weird atonal warble of the Nyueng Bao swordmaster, as Slender Reed wove her cage of death about the little yellow man.

There were a dozen men between Maul and No, and perhaps thirty feet of space. Maul leaped forward, driving his blades deep into the closest man's back. One down.

No stood his ground as best he could, shifting on his good leg, dodging as many blows as he parried. One of the soldiers pressing him became too eager and overextended himself; No took off his arm at the shoulder and the man fell back, screaming and clutching at the stump. Two down.

Two soldiers realized a new enemy had come up behind and turned to engage Maul with their blades. He fought viciously, brutally attempting to force his way past them to his friend. They separated slightly, trying to flank him, and he twisted, shoving half his sword blade through the one on his left. Three down. The other swept Maul's right-hand blade out of the way with his own sword and managed to bring the blade back around to cut a shallow slice across Maul's side. But a shallow wound like that was not even an inconvenience to Maul in his current state, and Maul responded by clubbing the fellow across the temple with his sword hilt, and then reversing the blade for a vicious stab. Four down.

No's breath was coming raggedly as two more soldiers closed in. His song faltered, ever so slightly, and Slender Reed's shining path wavered as his tiring muscles strained to hold the pattern just a bit longer…

Maul's head jerked up when No's voice hesitated, and he leaped forward, whirling his blades in a deadly pattern-dance that caught three more soldiers and left them in pieces. But even as they fell, and two more turned to face him, Maul saw one of No's assailants leap in, heedless of his own safety, and run his blade through the little man's ribs. Slender Reed took his head off in the next instant, but No's song melted into a shriek of pain, and he slumped against the wall, his face twisted in agony.

Maul's vision dissolved into a red mist, and the remaining four soldiers felt the hair on their necks stand up as he howled like a demon and charged forward, his face set in a grimace of rage and his eyes glowing with the same green witch-fire as his swords. Their nerves broke, and they scattered before his homicidal fury like leaves before the winter storm—and died as the storm broke around them. Green lightning arced from target to target, freezing them in their tracks, and in the next moments Maul's blades cut each man down where he stood.

Only when there was no movement in the hall, did Maul's rage dissipate enough for him to begin to think again. He sheathed his swords without cleaning them and hurried to where No sat slumped against the wall with Slender Reed's hilt still clutched in his hand. He still breathed with shallow, tortured gasps, but his skin was gray, and Maul had seen enough death to know that those breaths would not last much longer.

He knelt beside his friend and asked in Nyueng Bao, "No, what happened? How did they find us?" He managed to find a wan smile somewhere. "Was it that damned chicken?"

No managed a snicker that quickly became a rasping cough. Blood from his injured lung flecked his lips as he answered in the same tongue, "Maybe…" Then he sobered, and pulled Maul's head closer. "They took the singer alive, Maul…I could not get free to get her from them. But they have her…and they will be looking…for you…"

"I'll be looking for them, too," he vowed. "You never told me how the People bury their own. What is to be done with Slender Reed?"

No shook his head. "I am…too far…from our gods…for them to hear my prayers. And I have no student to wed my lady when I am gone." He coughed again, and Maul supported him, aware of the stir downstairs. There would soon be others upon them, but he refused to leave No alone. As the spasm eased, No gripped Maul's wrist. "Do not worry about my body—my spirit…lies within Slender Reed. Take her…find someone to wed her…and finish the contract."

Maul ducked his head as No fumbled Slender Reed's hilt into his hands. "There shall be blood for blood, I swear this, my friend. I shall see to it Slender Reed ends up in honorable hands."

No nodded, and then a shudder ran through his body. Maul gently laid the lifeless head down and stood as the sound of booted feet on the stairs heralded the arrival of more soldiers. Before they could emerge from the stairwell, Maul was through the shattered door of the room they had slept in, and was out the window, a mere shadow on the rooftops.

But as he made his way across the roofs of Lyannis, he became suddenly aware of a touch upon his mind, a cold and slimy touch that made him shudder as he instinctively threw up his strongest shields. He sprinted across the roofs, leaping from shadow to shadow—and realized that the soldiers in the streets below were following him. Cursing mentally, he increased his pace, but could not outrun that unerring mental touch.

That seeking mind picked at the edges of his shields, persistently, patiently unraveling his protections. Maul caught a closer glimpse of the hunter, and fear touched him then. Not _evil_, not as Maul understood the term, and he had seen much evil in his life. But it was clear and cold, and so terribly _hungry_ that Maul felt like a mouse caught before the pitiless gaze of a hungry snake.

It was instinct alone that sent him diving for the shadow cast by a leaning chimney as soldiers milled about below. Soon enough, they would be swarming through the building below, trying to corner him…but it was that mind that frightened him the most. If he could only figure out how to evade it!

Maul flattened himself against the shadowed brick wall, trying as hard as he could to imagine himself part of the shadow. Incredibly, he felt the obscene attention of that other mind falter. Elated, Maul closed his eyes, hands splayed flat against the rough brick of the wall, and thought of—nothing. Or, if any thoughts impressed themselves on the now-calm surface of his brain, they were thoughts of moonless nights, of deep still caves, of the primal darkness of the womb.

And the other seeking mind lost its grip as Maul slipped silently away.


End file.
